


A Study At Styles

by JackLyDarling (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Advent Calendar, Case Fic, Child Death, Crossover, M/M, Murder Mystery, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/JackLyDarling
Summary: The corpse of a little girl is discovered in Monsieur Poirot's flat. Now a suspect, Poirot must share the reigns of justice with another private detective to get to the bottom of the mystery. The other detective? A Mister Sherlock Holmes...





	A Study At Styles

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a duplicate of an orphaned work, that I'm reclaiming to put back under my own name (teen!me was far too enthusiastic about orphaning /o\ ).

**Chapter 1: Chapter 1**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It was almost midnight when the last train arrived at the train station. The lights in the ticket offices were being turned off, one by one, slowly darkening the street around it. The little light that remained glowed upon two men waded out of the last lit office into the flood of snow, giving a quick farewell to the staff member inside. Both were buried up to their ears in luggage – carrying two or three bags each, of which looked rather heavy as the two of them stumbled through the foot-deep snow covering the pavement. More snow fell softly upon them from the blank night sky, sticking to the backs of the men, who struggled almost helplessly through the snow. After ten minutes of hard slog through the seemingly endless wave of snow, one dropped his bags with a soft _thump_ and fell back into the snow. The other turned to face him worriedly.

"Hastings, are you alright?"

"Oh yes," The man named Hastings replied, his floppy blonde hair mussed across his pink face. "Don't worry, Poirot. I'm fine. Just taking a rest, that's all." He wiped a palm across his face. The other man, Poirot, smiled amusedly, curled moustache twitching like a shivering ferret.

"Captain Hastings, runner of the ranch in _l'Argintine_ , cannot walk through snow, whilst Hercule Poirot, who was once declared medically obese, can? It is strange, _n'est ce pas_?"

Hastings snorted. "I've never carried this much luggage through snow before." He lay back, the snow crunching a little under his weight, and stared at the inky black sky. "Sky's all covered with cloud. Pity. I would've liked to have seen the English stars."

" _Oui_... But answer me this Hastings, why return so much luggage to England? I thought you were going to return to your wife in _l'Argentine_. This luggage looks to be all the items you own!"

"Ah yes... I won't be returning to Argentina for a while. Too much work to be done here." Hastings grimaced and Poirot nodded in understanding, but the round, brown eyes glinted with suspicion. He tilted his head in thought and nodded at convenient intervals, as Hastings continued talking quietly to him, the topic as far as possible from the subject of work and Argentina.

They had been there for some five minutes, before Poirot straightened his head, turned and started wading off towards the lights of the town, one of which was probably Poirot's small, luxurious flat.

"Come Hastings, or it will be morning before we arrive. Miss Lemon is waiting anxiously for your return." Grumbling softly, Hastings hauled himself from the snow, picked up his bags and followed Poirot, stepping in his footsteps to make his journey towards the flat a little easier.

The pair walked in comfortable silence for a while. Yet more snow fell from the night sky, and occasionally one of the men shivered, or sneezed. The snow was collecting on their shoulders and heads, turning them into little more than sneezing snowmen walking through the wilderness. They arrived at the far edge of the park near the flat after ten minutes, and by Poirot's reasoning, they should arrive at the flat in little more than another quarter of an hour. During the course of the journey, Poirot's sneezes had become more and more frequent, and Hastings suspected he might've caught a cold from the cold air, and felt a pang of pity for his little friend; he knew how much Poirot hated being ill.

But being ill did nothing to slow Poirot pace. In fact, it seemed to make him _faster_.Poirot was no longer wading through the snow, he was almost _gliding_ through it, and Hastings found himself almost jogging to keep up. His breath was coming in sharp pants and a sharp pain in his side was starting to grate on his nerves, but Poirot seemed unaffected, marching through the snow as if it were air.

"Poirot? Could we slow down a bit?"

"Slow down? _Non, mon ami_. We cannot - _achoo!_ \- slow down!" Hastings sighed.

"Why not?" Poirot seemed not to hear him, and continued striding through the snow. Hastings had no choice but to hurry after him, using the last of his stamina. He had not gone more than five paces before his feet had collided with something hard, and he collapsed into the snow. His bags flew from his hands and landed a few feet away, and the snow almost instantly covered them. The wind was knocked out of him from the fall, so Hastings remained laying face-down in the snow, feeling sick and dizzy. He pulled his head up to yell to Poirot, to slow down, to _stop_...

Poirot was stood about ten paces from him, stopped in his tracks, rigid. Hastings started to realise something was terribly wrong with his friend. His form was unnaturally still, and he didn't respond when Hastings called his name. Hastings peered around his friend, and spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Whitehaven Mansions was ahead of them, where Poirot's lodgings were. Poirot's flat lights were on, and Hastings' weak thoughts formed the conclusion that Miss Lemon had remained, waiting for them to return. There was nothing strange or unusual between them and the flat. But then, Hastings noticed something. The scene around him was no longer alight with the soft yellow of streetlamps. It was alight with blue, a flashing blue light, constantly fluxing between colours. And that sound, the wailing of a siren, a police siren... outside Poirot's flat.

 _Thump._ Poirot had dropped the bags he was carrying. Hastings struggled to his feet and, leaving his bags in the snow, staggered over to him, the sickness and dizziness returning tenfold as soon as he stood up.

"What...?" For the first time since they'd stopped, Poirot spoke.

"Hastings, something terrible has happened. I fear it has happened in my flat..." Hastings' mind spun. He looked towards Poirot's flat, and spotted figures moving about, their silhouettes black and sharp. He thought of whom it might be, who the victim was... With a lurch, Hastings realised the only person that could've been in the flat...

"Miss Lemon..." Poirot tensed beside him. Miss Lemon, she was an innocent! What could she have done for someone to murder her? She was sweet and kind-natured, if not a little motherly. She wouldn't have meddled in affairs that would've led to her death... Would she? Hastings couldn't think straight. He turned to Poirot, but Poirot did not seem to be in the mood for talking. He was acting like a dog which had found her puppies about to be killed by a murderer. If he wasn't so gentleman-like, Hastings could've sworn he would be baring his teeth and growling at this moment. Seconds passed in which neither Poirot nor Hastings moved, before Poirot leapt into action, about to run forward, yelling over his shoulder as he went.

"Let us go, Hastings! We must make sure Miss Lemon is well!" But before they could run further than a few steps, they spotted a figure running towards them from the direction of the flat, being followed by police men, their tall hats making it seem as if the man in front was being chased by aliens. Hastings' blood ran cold. Was that the murderer? His vision blurred, but he shook his head to clear his view and prepared to tackle the man to the floor, brushing aside the fact that he still felt faint and sick after his mad rush after Poirot. Poirot prepared to do the same, but Hastings doubted Poirot's fighting skills were any use against this man, who seemed at least a foot taller than him.

Luckily for the two of them, they recognized the tall, gangly figure of the man to be Inspector Japp running towards them, the ends of his coat flying behind him like a cape. He was sprinting, Hastings noted dazedly, as if he was chasing down a criminal. But Japp did realise that it was Poirot and Hastings he was running full pelt at... Didn't he?

Japp continued running, rushed to Poirot and tackled him to the ground, forcing a muffled squeak from the squashed detective. He pulled Poirot's arms behind his back and reached for his handcuffs that he kept in his pocket. Hastings had the horrible feeling that he was right, that Japp had mistaken Poirot for the murderer of Miss Lemon. Hastings went to throw Japp off of Poirot, to tell him he'd just tackled one of his friends, but then, with a little cry of surprise, Japp realised his mistake. He let go of Poirot's arms and rolled off of him. He got up, and helped the little Belgian man onto his feet and attempted to brush off Poirot's suit, but Poirot stopped him and did it himself, sneezing all the while. To Inspector Japp's and Hastings' relief, he seemed unharmed.

"Poirot! What are you doing here?" Japp sounded surprised.

"Walking Hastings back from the train station. Why, what has happened Inspector Japp?" Inspector Japp sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked down to the floor. He then removed his hands from his pockets and looked up. He looked tired.

"Poirot, there's been a murder. We've found the body in your flat..." Hastings felt weak as his beliefs were confirmed, that Miss Lemon, the nice, gentle, motherly, _innocent_ Miss Lemon was... was... Hastings' body, exhausted from panic and tiredness, gave up on him, and he collapsed, toppling sideways into Poirot's shoulder before hitting the ground. The last thing he remembered was Poirot and Japp's faces bowed over him in worry, before the world around him vanished before his very eyes.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Chapter 2**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

White. There was a lot of white wherever he was, Hastings noted sleepily. His head was as heavy as a brick, and Hastings could hardly keep his eyes open, his eyelids felt like they were sown together with elastic. He shut his eyes again, and tried to work out where he was by using other senses. He was on something soft, lying down it seemed. A thin sheet was pulled up to his chin, and it smelt slightly of opium. His face which stuck out of one end was cold, and the rest of his body wasn't too warm either. It was eerily silent, as if no-one else was in the room. Hastings deduced from his clues that he was either dead, in a hospital or in a very posh drugs den. He sighed and curled up under the sheet. He was in no mood to escape from wherever he was, not with the temperature this cold...

"Captain Hastings? Are you awake?"

Ah, Miss Lemon. She might have a nice cup of tea for him if he was lucky... Wait. Hastings frowned. Something had happened to her, hadn't it? When, I wonder...?

It was at this time his memories had caught up with his thought process and hit him like a rampaging bull. Poirot. Argentina. Trains. Clouds. Pain. Blue lights. Wailing siren. Miss Lemon...

"Am I dead?" His voice was thick from disuse and it seemed to trip over his lips when he spoke, creating the illusion that he was mumbling unintelligibly.

"What was that?" Miss Lemon's voice was tinted with hope. Hastings wondered why.

"Am I dead?" This time, he spoke louder and slower, which made his voice sound vaguely understandable, though it took Miss Lemon a few seconds to figure out what he was saying.

"Oh! No, you're not, dear."

"Then why are you here?"

"What do you mean?" Miss Lemon sounded confused.

"Well, aren't you dead?" He heard a stifled gasp, then an 'Oh!' of understanding. Peeling his eyes open, he spotted the blurry image of Miss Lemon in the visitors chair beside him. He shook his head to clear his vision, but the weight of his head pulled it back to the pillow. From what he saw of Miss Lemon, she was smiling slightly, with tears in her eyes.

_Tears...?_

"Oh no, Captain Hastings. I wasn't in Monsieur Poirot's flat at the time." He heard her sob, but she seemed to compose herself.

"So you're not hurt?"

"No." Hastings felt relief course through his veins. _Thank God._ But one answer eluded him from the events – if it wasn't Miss Lemon who was murdered, then who was it? Was there even a murder anyway? The police could be inspecting a break-in into Poirot's flat. Hastings mentally berated himself for letting his overactive imagination get the better of him. It was probably only a break-in and by now the police have probably already arrested the little vagrant who did it. To be sure, he asked Miss Lemon about it.

"Why were the police at his flat?" Miss Lemon didn't answer for a long time. When she did, her voice was small and choked.

"There was... a murder." Hastings' heart stopped. He was already dreading the answer to his next question.

"Who?"

"A little girl. A little nine year old girl-" Miss Lemon broke off, struggled with herself for a moment, then became wracked with sobs. Hastings felt numb, but reached out and put his hand on her knee in an attempt to comfort her.

Nine years old... A whole life ahead of her, yet someone saw reason to snatch it cruelly away. It wasn't fair. He knew life wasn't fair, but to kill a little girl... that was just corrupt. Only a madman would kill a child, and a maniac to kill a young girl. His thoughts raced along them same theme, over and over again, as Miss Lemon beside him shook, crying almost silently now. When she spoke again, her voice was dry and crackly.

"I wish we could catch the villain who did it, but we can't. Poirot can't. Not even when it's in his own house. He just can't..."

"Why can't Poirot?"

"They... they won't let him take the case. Japp tried and tried to reason with his seniors to let him, but they wouldn't budge." Hastings stomach dropped. If Poirot couldn't take the case, then they were all doomed. Hastings had faith in the local police force, especially Inspector Japp, but not in cases such as these.

"Why not? Why won't they let him?"

"He's a suspect, Captain Hastings."

"Where is he?"

"In the local police station. He was with Inspector Japp for most of the morning, but because he's a suspect, they've had to interview him. When I left, he'd been in the interrogation room for at least half an hour."

"Surely not!" Hastings pushed himself upright. "We've got to go and get him!" He tried to clamber out of the bed, but at that moment, the swing doors at the end of the room swung open and a doctor walked into the ward.

"I hope you're not trying to escape, Captain Hastings." Hastings peered at the doctor, but saw nothing much more than an old, grey man in a doctor's uniform.

"I've got to go see a friend!" He swung his feet onto the cold tile floor, but the doctor was having none of it. Before he could blink, he was back under the sheet and the doctor was standing over him, staring severely.

"Now, Captain Hastings, you had a pretty bad fall yesterday, and you've been unconscious for the most of the morning. You're visit to your friend will have to wait."

"But-!"

"It will have to wait. You won't be leaving here until the evening at the very least, and your friend can visit you later, if this is that important." Hastings stared and uttered a few half-hearted protests.

"No, Captain Hastings. Now lie down and let me check your injuries..." Hastings flopped back with a sigh. Miss Lemon gave him a sympathetic look.

"Monsieur Poirot sends his greetings, if that helps any." Hastings just looked at her.

In contrast to Hastings, Poirot was protesting loudly against his captors.

" _Mon dieu_! I have told you, a hundred times! I was not at the flat! You have asked Miss Lemon and you can ask Captain Hastings! _Vous n'avez pas besoin de me poser cette question nouveau_! Inspector Japp, did you not hear me the first one hundred times? And yet these _imbéciles_ insist on asking again and again!"

Japp was stood in the doorway of the dingy little room, amusedly watching the interrogating Sergeant struggle with furious Belgian. He had to admit, Poirot's temper more than made up for what he lacked in height, seeing as he was busy swearing and yelling in rapid French, while the Sergeant before him was stuttering madly, trying to calm the Belgian down, and failing dismally.

"'Calm down sir?' What do you mean 'Calm down sir'! Perhaps if your brains were not made from _merde,_ then you would see..."

He let the Sergeant flounder out of his depth for a while before intervening. "Thank you, Sergeant, I'll take it from here." And with that he steered the Sergeant by the shoulders out the door and shut it behind him. Japp turned to Poirot and freed a wolfish grin that had been building up throughout the interview. Before he could make a snappy retort, Poirot broke in.

"Do not say anything, Inspector. It is not amusing in the slightest." Japp barked out a laugh before sobering up and sitting opposite Poirot.

"Of course it wasn't." Poirot glowered like an angry cat. "Come on Poirot, cheer up! I've come with a bit of good news for you!"

"Oh yes? What good news can this be? The only good news I would like to hear is that Hastings is well or they have allowed me to study the case!"

"Well, I don't know about Hastings, but my news is to do with the latter."

"...A ladder?"

"No, Poirot, it's- Look, they've allowed you to take a look at the case..." Poirot face was still for a moment, before it broke into a wide grin."

" _Bon_! That is _excellent_ news, is it not? Now-"

"...As long as you work with another detective."

" _Pardon_? Can I not work with you, Inspector?" Poirot looked crestfallen. Japp felt a pang of pity for his friend, but ploughed on, nevertheless.

"I'm afraid not. The senior boys told me that I wasn't to be the other detective. It had to be someone you didn't know. They asked this other inspector from the other side of town – Lestrade I think his name was – to find one. And within five minutes, he had." At the end of his narrative, he wished he could comfort the little man. Poirot looked completely dejected, staring at the table as if he wished that it could solve all his problems. He sat silently for a few minutes before speaking again.

"Who will this other detective be?"

"It's a man named Sherlock Holmes. From what Lestrade told me of him, he works very similarly to you. I've got you a meeting with him at seven o' clock, tonight." Poirot breathed deeply and let out a sigh.

"May Hastings come with me?"

"If he is well enough, yes."

" _Bon_. I shall meet with this Mister Holmes _aujourd'hui_ , then. May you give me the address of where we shall meet?"

* * *

**Chapter 3: Chapter 3**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Sherlock Holmes was restless.

Well, he was either restless or bored, but John Watson was inclined to think the former. Earlier in the morning, Holmes had received a call from Inspector Lestrade, the local inspector for this side of town. Now, Lestrade only phoned when he wished to set a case upon Holmes, and Holmes usually obliged, but during this particular call, he had gone from uppermost heights of glee to downtrodden sadness, before finally adopting a neutral expression and agreeing to something.

When Watson enquired about the nature of the call, he received a garbled response which had something to do with 'another detective' and 'other side of town'. Watson took this to mean he had a case to solve.

But the curious thing was, Watson had never seen Holmes this... _nervous_ before a case. He'd been acting queerly since that call. He asked Mrs Hudson to prepare tea for four people at seven (which Watson supposed was for themselves and their clients), then sat down. And did nothing. He didn't play the violin, he didn't smoke his pipe. He didn't answer Watson's questions with more than a grunt. He just sat there.

As it approached seven, some life stirred in the body of Holmes, but not in the way Watson had hoped. Holmes was _fiddling_. First, he fiddled with his pipe. Then he fiddled with the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Then he went downstairs to fiddle in the kitchen, only to be chased back up by Mrs Hudson. He fiddled with his violin, before dropping it and fiddling with his pipe again.

 _Yes,_ Watson thought pensively. _Something is up with Holmes_. He lent back and stroked his blonde moustache thoughtfully.

 _Clatter_. The sound of the violin being placed unmercifully back in it's case sounded throughout the flat they shared, and Watson waited patiently for the bang of the bedroom door to sound-

 _Bang_. Holmes flew out of the bedroom. Watson spared him less than a glance as Holmes collapsed onto the settee and started to fiddle with his pipe.

"Holmes, perhaps it would be wise if you stopped doing that." Holmes looked up at Watson.

"Doing what?"

"That." Watson motioned at Holmes' hands. Holmes looked down, realised what he was doing, and stuck the pipe in his mouth. Half a minute later he took it out of his mouth and started to fiddle again. Watson looked at him for a while, before putting a hand to Holmes' forehead.

"Watson, what are you doing?"

"Checking your temperature. Something is the matter with you today."

"Well, will you kindly desist from worrying over me like some mother hen. There is nothing the matter." Watson just looked at him. Holmes sighed.

"It's a new case."

"About what?"

"There's a murder over the other side of town. Lestrade has asked me to look into it, with another detective."

"Well, that's nothing to worry abou- Wait a minute," Watson began to realise what exactly was wrong with Holmes' answer. "What do you mean, with another detective?"

"Exactly what I just said. With another detective."

"Why?"

"The man they want on the case is a suspect. He has a shatter-proof alibi as to where he was that day, but the police still treat him like a suspect, and they need someone to verify his findings."

"Why can't Lestrade do it?" Holmes laughed.

"Lestrade can't do it because Lestrade won't do it. This man's methods are apparently somewhat like my own – completely strange. They needed someone who could understand his methods, and lo and behold, they thought I was the best person to do it."

"Ah. Why don't you do it on your own, then? I'm sure they'll let you, seeing how brilliant you are." Holmes smiled appreciatively at the comment.

"Thank you, Watson. But they think this detective is the best in London, and they're not about to refuse him to deal with the most queerest of cases. And naturally, I'm not to start until I speak to this detective first."

"Hmm... We will see soon whether he is as good as they say." Watson said, checking the mantelpiece clock. "He's arriving in ten minutes." Holmes looked sharply up at the clock, leapt to his feet with a cry and hurried downstairs, yelling for Mrs Hudson. Watson stared at his friend's retreating back for a while until it vanished down the stairs.

 _What is the matter with him today- Ah..._ An idea had started to form inside Watson's' head, an idea that might explain Holmes' odd behaviour... He ran downstairs to the kitchen.

When Watson arrived, he found Holmes fussing over a tea tray. Mrs Hudson was beside him, flapping away his hands.

"Mister Holmes, for the ninth time! I have everything under control, so wait for your guests _upstairs_! There's no need for you to be here-"

"Holmes, leave the tray alone!" Watson cut in smoothly. "Everything is fine, now stop being so afraid!" Holmes looked up at him quizzically.

"What do you mean, afraid?"

"I believe that you are afraid of 'London's Greatest Detective', aren't you?"

"Wha-?"

"You're afraid that this man will make you and you're methods look entirely useless, yes?" Holmes stared at Watson, mouth agape, before laughing heartily, his black curls bouncing merrily upon his head.

"Nonsense, Watson! Now, we'd better return upstairs, before Mrs Hudson throws a fit." Mrs Hudson did in fact look a little more than flustered than what was right, so Watson followed Holmes upstairs, hurried by Mrs Hudson's chiding.

But although Holmes had completely discouraged Watson's deductions, Watson couldn't help but notice the fact that when they arrived upstairs, Holmes did nto return to fiddling with the violin nor the ornaments on the mantelpiece; in fact, he sat on the settee for the remaining five minutes, completely still, smoking his pipe thoughtfully.

Meanwhile, Poirot and Hastings hurried down the pavement, Poirot striding firmly, and Hastings hobbling as fast as he could whilst leaning on his walking stick.

It had taken longer than expected to retrieve Hastings from the hospital. The doctor in charge of his ward was most insistent that he stayed in the hospital for a night, but after having three different people try to persuade him, including Inspector Japp, he had reluctantly allowed him out.

That was, of course, after they'd got Poirot and Hastings to sign many different forms to let him out – a form to make sure he would take care of him, a form for a walking stick for Hastings to take and use, a form to make sure Hastings felt well enough to leave, a form to make sure he was telling the truth on all the other forms...

After ten minutes of form signing, Hastings felt that the doctor was trying to keep them in for as long as possible. Poirot felt the doctor just wanted his signature on as many pieces of paper as possible.

But finally, after a discussion with Inspector Japp about directions and an unsuccessful bid to use the police car to get there, Hastings and Poirot were on the road towards Number 221B Baker's Street. Night had truly fallen by now, and the only light available were from the flickering lampposts dotted along the street edge. The snow around them released an unearthly glow, but it's light didn't do much in the way of letting them see where they were going. The bitterly cold edge of the wind had returned with a vengeance, and Hastings shivered as it hit him.

"I wish we could call a cab, Poirot," he called to the little man, who was about seven feet ahead of him.

"Yes, mon cher, but these English cab drivers – Pah!" He stopped and spat in the snow, and Hastings used this time to catch up with him. "They are very picky, are they not? Too much snow, can they not see?There is only a little snow. _Un peu_. Why they are cab _drivers, je ne sais pas..._

Hastings looked around him. To him, a foot of snow wasn't 'a little'. It was rather a lot, and he hoped there wasn't far to go. His feet had started to freeze, and he had no idea how well Poirot's beloved shoes would last in this weather.

Poirot's shoes seemed to be the least of the little man's troubles at the moment. He stood, hands behind back, studying the houses before him with a peculiar look upon his face.

"What number house are we on, Hastings?" Poirot called out. Hastings squinted at the door next to him.

"Erm... Number 215, I think."

"Ah _bon_! Hastings, we have almost arrived! Now..." Poirot counted the doors down from the one Hastings was stood in front of. _"Deux cent dix-sept_ , _deux cent dix-neuf_... Ah! Here we are!"

Hastings hobbled up to where Poirot was standing in wait.

"Now, _mon ami_ , our true challenge awaits here." Poirot climbed the steps and rapped on the door of 221B Baker's Street.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Chapter 4**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

The loud rap rang through the house like a whip crack. Watson heard the open downstairs, and the soft mumblings of a greeting came to his ears as Mrs Hudson allowed the visitor in. The stairs creaked as they climbed up them, and out of the corner of his eye Watson saw Holmes rise to meet their guests.

The door leading downstairs swung open and Mrs Hudson entered the room, laden with a tea tray. "Monsieur Poirot and a friend, Mr Holmes." She put the tea on the little coffee table, and left, closing the door with a _snap_ behind her.

To Watson, Monsieur Poirot didn't look like much of a detective. He was short, rotund round the middle and balding. His suit was completely immaculate, and whilst he had a moustache like most detectives, his was _styled_. It seemed that he was too vain to be much use as a detective.

His friend, on the other hand, looked much more like a detective. He was taller and slim, and although he had no moustache, his bright blue eyes told countless stories of what he'd seen.

Watson briefly wondered whether Lestrade had confused their names.

"Good evening, Monsieur Poirot." Striding towards the door, Holmes held out his hand.

" _Bonjour_ , Mister Holmes. I hope you are well. May I introduce my associate, Captain Hastings?" Holmes shook hands with the both of them.

"And this is my good friend, Doctor Watson," Holmes replied, indicating to Watson who sat in the armchair. Watson went to get up, but Poirot motioned him down and shook his hand while sitting. As Poirot and Hastings settled on the settee, Holmes himself sat in the remaining armchair, although a bit stiffly.

" _Merci beaucoup_ for allowing this meeting, Mister Holmes," Poirot started, eyes twinkling merrily. "I do hope you didn't worry too much on my behalf."

"Of course not, Monsieur Poirot. I hope your trip here didn't cause you much distress – especially since I can see Captain Hastings is only fresh out of the hospital." Poirot and Hastings looked up curiously. "There are no stains on that medical walking stick from use – therefore you must've only got it recently." Hastings looked quite amazed.

"Bravo! I must say, you are very good! Why-" He nudged Poirot, grinning amusedly. "-he might be as good as you!"

This was exactly the wrong thing to say. Poirot glowered at him, before speaking to him in a tone laced with ice. "Hastings, he may be good, but he is not as good as Hercule Poirot! _Par example_ , I can tell that Mister Holmes has not been out of this flat for at least a week, since his boots in the corner have no snow on them." Hastings flushed.

"Well-" He stammered uncertainly.

"May I also add," Holmes cut in smoothly. "That I know that you both walked here, since the hem of your trousers are completely drenched."

"And from what I have seen, I am quite sure that Doctor Watson has an old injury of the leg, _non_?" Watson looked up at the mention of his name.

"Yes I have, but-" He began, before Holmes cut across again.

"Judging by the facts, I believe your associate, Captain Hastings, used to be a military man?"

"And your friend, Doctor Watson, used to be in a similar occupation?"

And thus, the bickering, disguised as innocent statements, began. Watson decided not to get involved, and instead poured some tea. He offered Hastings a cup, who accepted with a weary smile. Watson guessed Hastings had been through this before.

After ten minutes, the pair hadn't stopped trying to get one over on each other. Watson had finished his tea, as had Hastings, and was now slumped in his chair, staring at anything but the warring couple. Hastings was massaging his left kneecap with a grimace.

"Is there anything I can get you for that?" Hastings looked up at Watson, who was looking at his knee with concern.

"Sorry?"

"Your knee. It's giving you some discomfort, I can tell."

"Well... if it doesn't bother you. I think I might've hurt it after my fall yesterday."

"It doesn't bother me, I assure you." Seeing as Hastings still looked unsure at the idea, Watson soothed his worries. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

The battling pair paid no attention to Watson and Hastings, who got up and left the room, heading down the stairs, towards the kitchen, Hastings hobbling and Watson limping slightly.

As they entered the kitchen, Mrs Hudson was upon them like a vulture, obviously prepared to give them a lashing for disturbing her yet again.

"Tenth time, Doctor Watson! How many times-"

"Mrs Hudson, I've only bought Captain Hastings down here to get something for his leg. It seems to be troubling him." Mrs Hudson's face softened at the mention of an injury, but it was obvious she still wasn't very happy for her precious kitchen to be turned into a make-shift emergency room. After moments of internal battling, Mrs Hudson's motherly nature won over, and she asked; "Is there anything I could do to help, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes. Could you see whether we have any ice around the house? I'll go in search of some medicine for the pain..."

Within five minutes, Hastings had his trousers rolled up and an icepack on his knee, made of the snow on the windowsill and a clean tea-towel. Watson had returned from his search with a tub of some mysterious topical solution. Hastings eyed it with caution.

"What is that, Doctor?"

"This?" Watson pointed at the tub. "It's a recent development – it's supposed to help with the pain from wounds. I've used it a couple of times myself – it seems to work."

"Ah. Was that for the _old injury of the leg_ , as Poirot put it?" Watson smiled.

"Yes." He opened the tub with a good jerk, and Hastings could smell a very strong herbal scent wafting from inside it. Watson wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Sorry about the smell, that's one of the only downsides to it." He removed the icepack from Hastings' knee.

"Don't worry, I don't mind- My God, that's cold!" Hastings hissed as Watson spread a great deal of the cream onto his kneecap. Watson laughed quietly.

"That's what I said when I first started using it." The two sat quietly for a while as Watson worked his magic over Hastings' knee.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?"

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you get your leg injury?" Watson smiled sadly.

"From the War. I was a medic stationed in India, and the base was attacked... I was hit by a stray bullet."

"My word... I apologize I shouldn't have asked-" Hastings started to apologize profusely, but Watson waved his concerns away.

"It's quite alright, Captain." Hastings was quiet for a while. Watson finished fixing Hastings' knee, and started to screw the lid of the jar back on.

"It makes me feel quite lucky." Watson looked at him quizzically, and Hastings elaborated. "I mean, I was in the front line and I got away with a few minor scratches, whilst you weren't even fighting and you got hit."

"True, but I feel that many of the front line have worse emotional scars than I. I only saw the remainders, but they saw how it happened as well." Hastings nodded solemnly.

"But we only saw details of a few war casualties. The medics like you saw most of the war in the eyes of the wounded."

"Yes, I guess that is true. I think we saw the story of the war in the eyes of the immigrants. The worst part was having to do medicals on the immigrants from these war torn countries, because you can see in their eyes. All the destruction. All the bloodshed. Especially the Belgian immigrants."

"Like Poirot," Hastings softly murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He fell silent for a few moments, thinking, before speaking again. "Talking of the detective, do you think we should try and get this meeting back to what we were supposed to be discussing?"

"Ah, yes. They've had long enough to quarrel." They both laughed, and as they headed back up the stairs, both men felt the first tendrils of a friendship start to entwine within their souls.

When they arrived back upstairs, the two detectives were still arguing, but this time it was about something different.

"-and I can tell you, Monsieur, he is not!"

"And I shall tell you, I am very sure that Captain Hastings is married!"

"Then tell me, why doesn't Captain Hastings wear a wedding riong on his-" Hastings decided to stop that quarrel in its tracks.

"Gentlemen, please!" Both detectives looked up at him, both surprised at how both Hastings and Watson had somehow moved from their respective seats to the door.

"Doctor Watson, how come you are over there?"

"Captain Hastings had some discomfort with his knee. We went downstairs, and I fixed it up for him." Watson answered for him. Holmes nodded in understanding, but Poirot jumped from his seat and went to Hastings' side almost immediately.

"His knee? _Mon ami,_ you did not say it was still hurting! Why did you not say something earlier?"

"Don't worry, old chap. I'm perfectly fine." Poirot sighed in relief.

"Ah, _bon_."

"Now, have you two discussed anything about the case in hand? Or have you been quarrelling for the last hour?" Watson asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Poirot and Holmes exchanged glances.

"Of course we have, my dear Watson!"

"Ah _oui,_ Doctor. We think that we cannot do much here without investigating first, and-"

"-We're meeting at the mortuary at ten o clock tomorrow morning." Holmes finished Poirot's sentence. Hastings and Watson exchanged raised eyebrows, before deciding to leave the matter rest.

"Now, we must leave Hastings, if we have any chance of arriving home before midnight." Poirot told Hastings, straightening his waistcoat. He turned towards Holmes and Watson. " _Au revoir_ Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson. We shall see you tomorrow at ten o clock, _oui_?"

"Agreed."

* * *

**Chapter 5: Chapter 5**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

The day dawned bright and cold, the morning light reflecting off the whiter-than-white snow which bordered the pavement. The road outside Baker's Street was still covered, save for a few tyre tracks, since the cabs refused to work in this weather and only the police were idiotic enough to brave the snow-bound roads in cars.

Hence the reason why Holmes and Watson were both walking towards the police mortuary in the cold weather. Holmes didn't seem to mind it, striding through it as if it wasn't there at all. Watson, however, struggled, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The winter chill played havoc with with his leg, and even though he'd put the topical medication on it before leaving, it hadn't completely dulled the pain.

"Watson, your leg, it doesn't hurt too much, does it?" Holmes asked, turning his face to him.

"No, it's nothing I can't handle, thank you." Watson checked his pocket watch. "How far is it now?"

"Around ten minutes."

"Exactly on time, then."

"Yes. We cannot arrive late for Monsieur Poirot, can we?" Watson felt the undercurrent of sarcasm in the statement, and wisely kept quiet. Holmes, however, didn't.

"I doubt that he is the most brilliant detective as those in the police service say. I believe he spends more time _grooming_ than focusing on a case."

"Holmes, just because a man likes to be tidy does not make him a useless detective." Watson bit back, preferring not to be the listening ear to Holmes' complaints this time.

"We're starting at ten. That is half the day gone. Why? Because Monsieur Poirot seemed to require an extra three hours to groom."

"You chose the time."

"Because he would not agree to any time earlier."

"Perhaps he preferred not to walk through these icy conditions in the dark."

"No Watson, I believe he needed the time to pluck every single grain of dirt off of his shirt. He is far too vain to be a detective."

"Your level of hygiene is comparable to that of a cat, yet I don't believe it impairs on your work. Anyways, I'm doubtful that Monsieur Poirot is as vain as you claim."

"Watson, he _styles_ his moustache."

"As do most owners of a moustache."

"You don't."

"Yes I do. I comb it. That's styling." Holmes looked at him sceptically. Watson pushed on to drown any of Holmes' counterarguments. "Holmes, could you please just agree somewhat with Poirot for this case? It would make this a whole lot easier."

Holmes snorted, but saw the logic in his suggestion. "I shall try. But only if he does not embark on an egotistical tour of his skills yet again."

As they arrived at their destination, Watson decided not to point out that Holmes had also embarked on an egotistical tour with Poirot.

Speaking of the detective, both Hastings and Poirot were waiting for them inside. It seemed as if they'd only just arrived; Hastings looked windswept and Poirot straightened his moustache by using a handheld mirror, which he hastily pocketed as Holmes and Watson entered.

"Ah, _bonjour_! I hope you are well?" He shook hands with Watson and gave a nod to Holmes, which seemed to be rather tense.

"Very well, thank you." Watson smiled back. "You haven't been waiting long?"

" _Non_. We arrived on the hour. We are never late, since Hercule Poirot-" At this moment it seemed as if Poirot was about to embark on the egotistical tirade that Watson dreaded. But Hastings had leant forwards and had whispered something in Poirot's ear, which seemed to stop the little man in his tracks, something that distinctly sounded like 'chocolate box'...

Watson had never wished to know the meaning of something so badly.

"Shall we go to the body, then?" Holmes spoke in the pause. Poirot nodded, and the two of them strode in the direction of the room, leaving Hastings and Watson to bring up the back.

"Captain Hastings, what exactly did you mean by 'chocolate box'?" Watson asked curiously as they followed the two detectives. Hastings smiled amusedly.

"Well, we agreed some time ago, that if Poirot ever started to grow conceited, I was to whisper into his ear the phrase 'chocolate box'..."

The detectives had already started to examine the body when the two of them arrived. Inspector Japp and Inspector Lestrade were stood to one side watching, having waited for the four to arrive in the room. Both Watson and Hastings stood a fair distance away, far enough to leave the detectives to their work but close enough to get their first sight of the girl.

And what a girl she was! She had a head of golden curls which rained far over her shoulders. Her face was petite and narrow, with soft lips and a button nose. Hastings could see the large head wound on her forehead, which he supposed was where the killer struck. The sheet was folded down to her waist, and he noticed that her skinny chest was covered in small, curious burns.

These curious burns seemed to capture the interest of both detectives, as they studied them on opposite sides of the table.

"She was on her stomach when she was found," Lestrade was saying. "When we turned her onto her back to go on the stretcher, we found her chest covered in blood, and the upper part of her face."

"Must've been some head wound." Japp added softly.

"Hmm." Both detectives acknowledged the facts given to them by the Inspectors with a slight noise. Hastings was struck by the similarity, and wondered whether this was the only similarity between them.

"It is strange... There was only blood on the upper face, Inspectors?" Poirot asked, looking up from the body for the first time.

"Yes." Lestrade replied.

"Then why no blood on the lower face, when there was plenty on the chest?" Poirot mused. Holmes seemed to be following the same thought process, as he called Watson over.

"Watson, could you check whether these chest wounds could bleed?"

Hastings turned to look at Watson, only to find him staring at the body, his face a few shades paler than what was healthy. Hastings studied him for a few seconds before it hit him; _Watson hadn't been told anything of the victim_. Everyone in the room had known (Hastings supposed that Lestrade had told Holmes over the phone), but Watson had unknowingly been left out of the loop, and was paying the price for the oversight.

So Hastings did the only thing he could think of to comfort the man; he placed a hand on his shoulder. Watson jumped at the contact, obviously in a world of his own, but when he saw Hastings looking at him, concerned, he relaxed. Placing his hand over Hastings', he held his gaze for a few moments before smiling in thanks. Hastings squeezed his shoulder once more before letting it drop.

Holmes called for Watson again, looking up worriedly until Watson smiled at him reassuringly and stepped over to investigate. He ran a medically trained eye over the body, pointedly avoiding the innocent face of the girl, before stepping back and reporting his findings.

"The burns are minor – whatever it was couldn't have been over sixty degrees Celsius. They certainly couldn't have bled."

"Then why so much blood on the chest?" Holmes mused.

"Or was it blood at all?" Poirot finished Holmes' thoughts. The detectives exchanged surprised glances, unsure as to how that happened. Watson and Hastings looked at each other.

"Inspectors, could one of you retrieve the girls clothes for us?" Lestrade turned towards the evidence room, but Japp's longer legs reached the door first, so he bought out the clothes; a long yellow dress, half-covered with scarlet, and little white boots. He laid the clothes out on a spare table, and the detectives crowded round to examine them.

"There is a lot of this substance, _non_?" Poirot commented quietly. "There is some on her shoes." He pointed at the tips of her shoes, which were tinged scarlet.

"But how? Why?" Holmes thought aloud. He lifted the dress and sniffed at the scarlet, before putting it back with a frown. "It certainly seems to be blood, Monsieur Poirot. It smells like it."

" _Oui_? Then we must try to think. Where did this blood come from?" The two stood together for a while, almost as if they were silently communicating with each other.

"Inspectors, are you interviewing anyone tomorrow?" Poirot asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes," Japp answered. "The family, three o clock tomorrow. They're suspects too, but were in no fit state to be interrogated this morning, seeing as they were only just informed of the murder."

"Ah. Would it be agreeable for me and Mr Holmes to join you?"

"It should pose no problem."

"Good." It was Holmes who spoke this time. "Then we shall see you again tomorrow."

" _Oui_." And with that, the two vanished out of the room, leaving Hastings and Watson to catch up with them in their wake.

"Well, this is certainly quite the development, isn't it Doctor?" Hastings told Watson as they left the building.

"Quite. Perhaps they may see past their differences whilst working together."

"Hopefully! Though I don't think that this will last much longer if either of their egos start battling yet again!" They both laughed.

"Well, we must hope this development carries on developing, mustn't we Captain?" Hastings nodded, smiling.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Chapter 6**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

The cold wind hadn't abated the next afternoon so Poirot, Holmes and Inspectors Japp and Lestrade made their way cautiously along the icy roads in the rattling police car. Both Watson and Hastings opted to stay at their respective homes today, Baker's Street and a spare Whitehaven flat, respectively, due to their various aches and pains. Poirot understood completely – the snow made any form of transport lethal, especially on achy legs.

 _Squeal!_ The police car swerved around the corner, tyres desperately trying to find grip on the slippery surface of the road, and he once again wondered why Mr Holmes and himself had insisted on taking the car. It seemed to be an excellent idea at the time.

Of course, they hadn't taken into account Japp's driving attitude – get there as fast as possible, whatever the weather. It wasn't as if they had much choice on driver; neither Holmes nor Poirot could drive, and Lestrade flat out refused, but Poirot was pretty sure it would've been much safer just to walk. His body, bruised from being thrown multiple times into either Holmes or the side of the car, agreed.

The car journey had been mostly spent in awkward silence, save for the multiple apologies to each other as the car threw them together time and time again, so when Poirot heard Inspector Japp's call of "Here we are!" relief flooded his veins like blood.

"Inspector Japp, next time I shall insist either Hastings or Inspector Lestrade drives, _je pense_." Poirot told Japp once he had climbed out of the car. Japp laughed.

"I'm sure it wasn't that bad, Poirot! Sure it left much to the imagination..." He trailed off as he saw Holmes and Lestrade clambered out of the car, Lestrade limping and Holmes holding his arm stiffly. Poirot smiled in triumph.

"Shall we, gentlemen?" The four of them trouped up to the whitewashed door, and Inspector Japp, being the closest, knocked on the door.

It was answered almost immediately by a young maid, who peered through the crack in the door with her big brown eyes before opening the door.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." She said softly.

"Good afternoon." Lestrade replied, tipping his hat. "We are here to speak to Mister Lauret."

"Of course. Follow me, if you'd please." She turned and walked down the corridor. The quartet followed her. Soon enough, she had lead them to an light, open room, furnished with little more than a few chairs and a table, covered in a barely-started game of cards. A phone sat on a small corner table by the door, and beside it was a small silver bell. "They will be here shortly." She left, heels clacking on the wooden floor of the stairs as she went to tell the family that they had arrived.

By the time Mister Lauret arrived, the quartet had made themselves very comfortable. Japp was slouched on the settee, hands behind his head. Lestrade was in a similar position in a nearby armchair. Holmes had drawn a chair by the table and was studying the card game intently. Poirot was in a seat opposite him, fingers folded together in completive thought.

"Afternoon, men." The gruff voice of Mister Lauret seemed to wake the Inspectors from their comfort haze. Both Lestrade and Japp hastily rearranged themselves to look the image of professionalism. Poirot and Holmes remained absorbed at the table.

"Mister Lauret, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I am Inspector Japp, and this is Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. The two men over there are private detectives, Monsieur Poirot and Mister Holmes." At the sound of their names, the two men broke out of their reverie to say a polite "Good afternoon." Lauret responded with a nod of his head.

"We would like to ask you a few questions, concerning the death of your daughter." Lauret's mood suddenly shifted from pleasantly curious to downright upset. He sat down into the nearest seat. Poirot and Holmes rose from the table and stood either side of the two inspectors.

"I should've seen this coming, shouldn't have I?" Lauret mumbled sadly, head tilted downwards. He took a deep breath, collecting all the inner strength he had, before looking up. "Ask away, gentlemen."

"Could you please recount your movements on the night of December first and the early morning of December second?"

"Yes, of course. At about eight, I was in the living area of my flat – that is, the flat above the-the scene," He begun, shaking slightly at the mention of Poirot's flat, where the dead girl was found. "I talking to my sister, Margaret, about a new book I should read. Our conversation stopped around half nine, and I rose to say goodnight to- to-" He shook violently, but found the strength to carry on. "-to Lucy, and left her in the hands of my maid, Jemima, to put her to bed. At about ten I left the flat and went for a walk to the hill, seeing as it was such a clear night and I felt like stargazing. I returned around two o clock in the morning."

"Right... Mister Lauret, did you notice anything unusual that night? Did you notice anyone peculiar?"

"No. L-Lucy was a bit more excitable than usual, but sometimes she was like t-that, sometimes had h-hyper spells-" He broke off, struggled with himself for a moment, before breaking down into a mess of tears. The quartet looked on sympathetically. Poirot stood forward and put comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I-I'm sorry, Inspectors," Lauret sniffled pathetically. "It's just- Lucy's _gone_. Gone f-forever! First her m-mother, now L-Lucy! Oh, my d-dear L-Lucy..." He sobbed into his shoulder, his short golden curls drooping over his face. Holmes pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Lauret, who accepted it gratefully.

"I'm sorry y-you're seeing m-me like this, I-Inspectors," Lauret muttered sadly, mopping his eyes with the handkerchief.

"Don't worry, Mr Lauret. It's understandable. You've just lost a child." Lestrade said soothingly. Japp made a noise in agreement but not much else – he didn't fare well with tears. Lauret nodded, dried his tears, returned Holmes' handkerchief (whose owner accepted it with a slight wrinkle of the nose) and sat up straight. Only his eyes betrayed how much he had been crying. Poirot returned to his previous position beside the Inspectors.

"Feel free to continue, Inspectors." Inspector Japp looked up at Inspector Lestrade, who took over the questioning.

"Who was in the flat with you on the night?"

"Only L-Lucy, Jemima, Margaret and myself. Margaret comes to visit us every so often, since she lives so close – this is her house, you see?"

"Ah yes. How long has your maid Jemima been in your service?"

"Between nine and ten years, I think... yes. She was sixteen when she started, and she is coming on twenty-six. She's a sweet girl, Jemima. I trust her implicitly. I doubt she could've mur-mur- _done that_ to Lucy – she loved her like a little sister."

"We must consider everyone a suspect, no matter how unlikely, Mister Lauret." Lauret nodded in understanding.

"I see."

"Now, what about your sister Margaret? Did she have any ill-feeling towards your daughter?"

"No. She was firm with how little girls should behave, and I believe L-Lucy was frightened by her severe attitude, but she only wanted what was best for her."

"Ah."

"Anything more to ask, Inspectors?"

"Just one more question, if you allow it." This time it was Holmes who spoke. Lauret nodded in agreement. "When you went out for your walk, was the door to the flat below open or closed?"

"I... don't know." Lauret looked unsure of himself. "I didn't see it. I took the lift down."

"I see. Sir, would it be possible to speak to your sister?"

"Of course." Lauret rose and rang the small silver bell. Within seconds, the maid, Jemima, was in the doorframe.

"Jemima, could you go and ask Margaret to come down here, please?"

"Of course, sir." She left. Lauret went to bid them all good day, but Poirot stopped him.

"Monsieur, would it be agreeable if I use your phone?" Lauret looked a little surprised.

"Yes, of course." Lauret then followed Jemima out, leaving Japp, Lestrade, Holmes and Poirot a few moments of privacy.

"Alright Poirot, what are you up to now?" Poirot walked over to the phone. Holmes followed him.

"I would like to check something with Captain Hastings."

"You don't believe his story either." Holmes stated. Poirot looked at him.

" _Non_. Something does not seem right with it."

"Agreed."

"Wait," Lestrade said slowly. "So neither of you think his grief was true?"

"His grief was very true, Inspector."

"But his story as to where he was doesn't seem to be." Holmes interjected, seemingly not noticing he had yet again finished Poirot's thoughts. The two Inspectors picked up on it though, and exchanged curious glances. In the following silence, Poirot picked up the handset and dialled the number of the spare flat where he and Hastings were staying.

Hastings' phone was engaged.

"Perhaps Watson will know." Holmes suggested. He leant over and entered the number for Baker's Street.

This phone was also engaged. Holmes and Poirot sighed in frustrated unison. Lestrade and Japp looked at them strangely.

"What's happened now?" Japp asked. Holmes looked up at him.

"They had to pick this time to call each other, didn't they?"

* * *

**Chapter 7: Chapter 7**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Holmes' and Poirot's frustration at their friends dissipated when Margaret Lauret entered the room. She was the sort of person you could sense enter a room without looking – if you couldn't recognise the loud voice, you'd certainly recognise the heavy perfume she wore.

"Ah! Inspectors Japp and Lestrade, I presume?" She leant down and kissed them both on the cheek. When she resurfaced, Lestrade looked as if he'd been held underwater for a good few hours. Japp just looked slightly ill.

"And if I know my celebrities right, you must be Monsieur Poirot!" She gushed, turning away from the inspectors to place two kisses on Poirot's cheeks. Poirot did not know whether to be pleased about being called a celebrity or repulsed to be called a celebrity by this woman. He settled for a polite smile.

Margaret Lauret then turned to Holmes "And I suppose you are Mr Poirot's man-servant, yes?" She said, eyeing his eccentric clothing with disdain. "Shouldn't you be waiting outside for him? Go on, shoo!" She waved him towards the door. Holmes bristled, grey eyes freezing over like a puddle in winter. He opened his mouth to retort, but Poirot smoothly cut him off before he could start an angry tirade.

"Mademoiselle, this is a very good friend of mine, Mister Holmes. Have you not heard of him? He is quite unknown and a little strange, _oui_ , but he possesses the brain _extrodinaire_! He is to look into the case with _moi_ , if it is alright with you?" She slowly nodded, not fully convinced, and sat in the nearest chair. Holmes threw Poirot a look of suspicious gratitude.

"Ah yes... I think I might've heard his name in passing... Were you involved in the case with that ghostly dog?" She asked once settled. He nodded silently, still affronted from being referred to as Poirot's _man-servant_. She looked at him, obviously expecting him to elaborate. He stayed silent. After a few moments of awkward silence, Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Miss Lauret, we are here to ask about your movements on the night of December first and early morning of December second."

"This is to do with the killing of my niece, isn't it? Well, I spoke to Terry – that is, my brother – about this new book I've been reading. 'A Rug In Persia' it's called, have you heard of it?"

"No, I can't say I have."

"Well, it's all about a young girl who-"

"Miss Lauret, we are here to know about your movements on the night and morning in question, not the plot of your book." Japp interrupted.

"Sorry about that Inspector, got a bit carried away. It was around eight we spoke – just after dinner, and we must've been talking for a good hour and a half. Terry then left to say goodnight to Lucy – why he did I don't know, she's old enough to go to bed by herself – and I settled down to read, whilst Terry went in search of something. He said something about going for walk – I thought it was a bit queer, at this time of night – and left as the clock struck ten. Soon after that, I heard a loud crash from the kitchen. I went to investigate, but I met that excitable maid, Jemima before I'd even got to the door, who told me that she'd just knocked something over and everything was under control. I took her words with a pinch of salt, seeing the insane mood she was in, but I left and retired for bed soon after."

"Thank you, Miss Lauret. We'd just like to ask a few questions, if that's alright."

"Fire away, Inspector."

"This walk of Mister Lauret – was it a regular occurrence?"

"Since the death of Amelie, yes."

"Who is this Amelie?"

"His wife, of course. Poor dear. Something wrong with her head. Never looked happy. They met in work, Terry and Amelie. Terry's a psychiatrist, you see."

"Hmm."

"Mademoiselle," Poirot spoke from his place beside the telephone. "May I ask in what circumstances did Madam Lauret die?"

"I don't see how that has any relevance to the case at hand, Monsieur."

"Ah, but it may give us a motive."

"Well you won't find any motive there, Inspector. She committed suicide. Drowned herself in the bathtub." She sighed dramatically. "I always told Terry not to mess with her, but he went and did so anyway."

"What do you mean, 'mess with her'?" Despite the brand of man-servant still burning, Holmes still leant in, interested.

"Well," She leaned in as if about to tell some huge secret. "Terry is quite the womanizer, if you know what I mean. Always had a girl on his arm. And when he tired of that girl, he'd strut around town with another, leaving the other girl to pick up the pieces."

"Did he ever do this during his marriage to Missus Lauret?"

"In the early days, it looked like he would, but he'd change his mind last-minute. He'd flirt with someone one hour, and ignore them the next."

"Hmm... Curious. I thank you for your time, Miss Lauret. Could we see Jemima, please?" Margaret nodded, and rang the bell. Jemima arrived within a few moments.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"These fellows would like to interview you."

"Of course." Margaret looked at her for another moment before whirling out the door in a flurry of green silk.

"Please sit down, Miss...?" Inspector Japp started.

"Jemima, if you'd please."

"Now Jemima, could you tell us what you were doing on the night of Lucy's death?"

"I was cleaning up after dinner. I stopped around nine o' clock, and went and ran a bath for Lucy. Afterwards, we both met up with Mister Lauret, who bid Lucy goodnight. I tucked her into her bed, and then went to finish the cleaning in the kitchen. While I was cleaning, I heard a terrible crash behind me. I turned and saw the soup pot – half full with leftovers from dinner – rolling across the floor. I suppose I must've knocked it over while scrubbing something vigorously. I ran out to reassure Miss Lauret that I had it under control, for you see it disturbed her. I then closed the front door, and returned to the kitchen, before retiring around half ten, eleven o clock."

"Miss, you say you closed the front door. Why was it open?"

"I guess Mr Lauret left it open when he went out. I heard the door go from the kitchen."

"Did you hear anyone go through the door after Mister Lauret left?"

"No- Wait, yes. Mister Lauret returned around ten minutes later. He'd come to pick up something from the coat rack."

"I see. Are you sure it was Mister Lauret who entered the flat?"

"Yes. His shoes make a very distinctive sound."

"Right... Any questions, chaps?" Both Japp and Lestrade turned to look at the detectives, but they were absorbed in their own thoughts. They turned back to Jemima.

"I suppose that's the end of this interview, then. Thank you, miss. You can return to your duties." She nodded, rose and left. Once she left, both Inspectors returned to their previous slouching positions on their respective seating arrangements.

"Now that's a little bit of a puzzler for you, boys." Japp grinned wolfishly. Lestrade snorted from his seat.

"Isn't it just? A bit like a locked-room conundrum."

"It is a very curious case, _n'est ce pas_?" Poirot spoke quietly.

"Very curious." Holmes agreed, thinking deeply. They settled into completive silence.

"There are three points of interest in this case." Poirot suddenly broke the silence with this statement. All eyes fixed on him in interest.

"One is why did Mr Lauret lie about what he was doing that night?"

"You haven't any proof of that yet, Monsieur Poirot." Lestrade spoke from his chair.

"I will once I have contacted Hastings." Poirot told him firmly, before continuing. "Now, _numéro deux,_ how did Mademoiselle Lucy move from her bedroom to my flat? And _trois_ , how did she get in past the eyes of Miss Lemon?" Holmes looked up sharply.

"It was your flat they found her in?"

" _Oui_. Does it matter?"

"No, but it solves the mystery of why you're under suspicion." Poirot nodded.

"Did Lestrade not tell you?"

"No-"

"Holmes, you didn't ask." Lestrade broke in briskly. "Now gentlemen, I think we have encroached on the hospitality of Mr Lauret long enough. Shall we go?" And with that, Lestrade got up and walked out of the room. The other occupants followed slowly.

"I hope we helped as much as possible, men." Mr Lauret told them as he shook their hands in farewell. "I do apologise for dragging you out here. I would've stayed in the flat but – well, after _that_ –" He broke of awkwardly.

"Do not worry yourself, Monsieur. We fully understand." Poirot tipped his hat.

When they re-entered the bitter air, Holmes and Poirot walked side by side, rather awkwardly, completely silent. Japp pulled Lestrade aside.

"Lestrade, do you know what you just did back there?"

"Strangely enough, I think I interviewed suspects." He answered dryly. Japp rolled his eyes.

"No, Lestrade. You interrupted a conversation between Poirot and Mister Holmes!"

"So?"

"So? Lestrade, that was one of the few times they were actually civil to each other, and if you'd kept your mouth shut, it might've developed into-"

"Into what? Friendship and all that other mushy stuff? Holmes isn't that kind of man, Japp-"

"No, but perhaps it would've helped them forget differences and work without the stony silences!"

Lestrade snorted. "Japp, I appreciate your insight, but I know Holmes better than you. And to me, there will be _nothing_ between Monsieur Poirot and Holmes."

Japp looked at him. "You seem pretty sure."

"I am."

"Then, a wager."

Lestrade looked at him strangely. "A wager? On what?"

"I bet you ten pounds that by the end of this case, there _will_ be something between them, even if it is only mutual understanding."

"I accept, then. There is _no_ chance-"

"Inspectors!" They turned to see Holmes leaning out of the car window. "Could you do us all a favour and drive us back to our houses? And I mean _safely_ , Inspector Japp!"

* * *

**Chapter 8: Chapter 8**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

"...Ah yes! I remember now. Didn't he..."

Hastings was still on the phone when Poirot arrived back at the flat. He was lying on his mattress on the living room floor – it was one of the few things the police had allowed them to remove from the room to furnish their temporary flat, along with the phone, Poirot's mattress, a Monopoly set and a few personal artefacts. Since they would stay there for no more than a month, they both deemed it unnecessary to spread their belongings out, so for now they slept on the living room floor.

Poirot stepped into the living room. Hastings looked up, and upon seeing the face of Poirot, hurriedly ended the call.

"I've got to go, Poirot's back and I think I've run the phone bill up quite a bit... Really, that long? I'll be broke if we don't stop now, John!" He laughed. "Alright then. Take care." He replaced the handset, and turned towards Poirot.

"'John' now, is it?" Poirot asked innocently, but Hastings detected an icy undercurrent to his words. He swallowed nervously.

"Err, yes. Well, we thought it would be easier to call each other by our first names than by'Doctor' and 'Captain', you see, and-" He stopped. Poirot was almost glowering at him. "Is there anything the matter, Poirot?"

"No, _rien_." Poirot turned towards the kitchen. "You have been speaking to 'John' for quite some time, _oui_?"

"Yes. We are friends, you know, like you and Mister Holmes-" Poirot snorted.

"Pah! Mister Holmes and I are not friends. We cannot be."

"And why ever not? You seemed to work very well together in the mortuary."

"That was out of _nécessité._ I would've not gotten anywhere if we had not spoken."

"I see." There was a slight pause. "Poirot, I'm sure if you _tried_ to get along-"

" _Non_ , Hastings! I will not 'get along' with that- that- _scélérat_!"

"Scele _-what_?" Hastings searched through his shoddy school-boy French, but came up with nothing.

" _Scélérat_! Villain!"

"That's rather harsh, Poirot-"

" _C'est vrai, non_? He has taken my case! No-one takes a case from Hercule Poirot!" Hastings had only seen Poirot in this mood once or twice before, and at those times he had been furious about something or other. Hastings couldn't for the life of him figure out what he had done to make Poirot this angry.

"Poirot, what-" But the little Belgian man wasn't finished.

"And now he tries to take you, too! His little _espion_ Watson has ensnared you, Hastings! And he will try and use you to gain facts for his own gain!"

"Poirot!"

"Is it true? Yes! Poirot knows this-"

"No!" Hastings stood up and towered over Poirot. The little man remained unshaken.

"Now listen here Poirot, I don't know what has happened with you today, but whatever it is has nothing to do with Doctor Watson!"

"Does it not? I have just explained-"

"You haven't explained anything, Poirot! You've made up stories! All because you couldn't do _one_ case on your own-"

"Are you accusing me of being a liar, Hastings?" Pause.

"Yes. I am."

"You-!"

"Am I right, Poirot? Yes! What evidence have you to support your story? None!"

"I-"

"No, Poirot, I don't want to hear it! You've tried to pin titles on two completely innocent men, and I won't hear another word of this damned story!"

"Why, Hastings? I have told stranger stories than this before – what is so different now?"

"What's different? What's different in this is that _I_ for once know the facts here, and those two men are respectable people!"

"As were many of the clients in my cases! They have ensnared you, Hastings! Your imagination – it refuses to believe-"

"It's always this, isn't it Poirot? My thoughts, always wrong! Never _once_ have you valued me for my input!"

"That is not true! You always exaggerate things Hastings! Is that why your wife left you in Argentina? Because you always made things better than what they seemed to be, and she was always _disappointed_ afterwards-"

"I'll be staying at a hotel tonight, Poirot. Don't wait up." He interrupted icily. With that, he bent down and threw a few belongings into a bag.

"Hastings-"

"No." Hastings sounded tired. "For once in your life, would it hurt you to be wrong once in a while?" He left the flat, leaving Poirot to stare at the door.

It was a few minutes before Poirot noticed Hastings had left his wallet beside his bed.

It was past eight o clock. Watson had already dined, stomach ruling over worry for a few moments, before returning to his vigil beside the window.

Holmes had not yet returned from his trip to the interviewee's house. Monsieur Poirot had returned around half past five, he knew that from Hastings, but there had been no sign of the elusive other detective. He had not been worried at first, thinking that Holmes had gone on the trail of a clue, but as time passed by, he began to worry more and more, until at half six he took up watch by the window.

Mrs Hudson was worried too, but that was to be expected from the motherly landlady. She worried whenever Holmes took on a new case. She promised to keep a look-out for downstairs for him, but Watson feared that they'd be left on watch for most of the night.

 _Like most nights_ , a voice in his mind sniggered gratingly, but Watson buried him away in the nether regions of his brain. It was true; this wasn't the first time Holmes had left him and Mrs Hudson wondering about his whereabouts, but usually when he returned, he ame back with small things to placate them – a nice tea cosy for Mrs Hudson and some rare artefact for Watson, usually.

Watson still wondered why he stayed with Holmes. He was little help on cases, and the only time Holmes sought him out was when he needed something-

 _No_ , Watson told himself sternly. _He is your friend_. _He often takes me with him on walks and to concerts, doesn't he?_

 _Yes, but what else does he do?_ The irritating voice was back. _Is he there when you need to talk? Was he there when Miss Morstan left you for another suitor? No, he was not._

 _But Holmes was in Scotland when Mary left me,_ Watson's inner voice argued pathetically. _He didn't know_.

_Wasn't it obvious you were not in your usual spirits? Yes. And what did he do? Play that pathetic little song on the violin. Again and again and again._

_Well-_

_And haven't you waited up for him every night this week, without thanks?_

_I-_

_Be quiet, Watson. You know it's true. He doesn't care for you at all. You are no more important than a harlot to him – only useful when he wants it He doesn't-_

_Click._ The door opened. Holmes walked in jauntily, as if he hadn't been missing for the last few hours. Watson could hear Mrs Hudson yelling at him up the stairs.

"Good evening, Watson."

"Holmes." Watson was in no mood to care what he sounded like at the moment. Perhaps Holmes would actually notice for once.

"I'm sorry for arriving so late, old chap. I met a man I once knew, and lost track of time. I hope you don't mind." Holmes smiled at him. Watson ignored him, choosing to return his gaze to the window. Holmes frowned in confusion.

"Perhaps I should mention this man is the co-manager of that little theatre down the road, and after a few words he agreed to procure two tickets for the orchestra's Christmas Show! I'm sure you'll join me, of course."

"No."

"Excellent! Then-" He stopped, realised what Watson had said, then turned around. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I meant no, Holmes. I'm not going to the orchestra with you." Silence.

"Why ever not?"

"Perhaps I don't want to go."

"Nonsense! I know for a fact you love the Christmas show! You've gone every year for the last ten years of your life. Twice last year, if I remember rightly."

"Then perhaps I don't want to entertain _your_ panderings every single time, whilst I have to worry for over two hours about your whereabouts every night!" The end of this statement ended in a shout. Holmes looked alarmed.

"Not every night, I'm sure-"

"Every night this week I have!" There was silence. Holmes looked at him strangely.

"Watson, what has got you into this silly mood?"

"Well, let's think," Watson struck a thoughtful pose mockingly. "Perhaps because all the things I've said are true? Perhaps I've been running on four hours of sleep every night? Or perhaps it's because I'm going to have to physically hold you back from ripping Monsieur Poirot's throat out whenever you see him in the future?"

The flat was flooded with silence. Holmes looked stunned. Watson breathed heavily for a few moments before turning and grabbing a coat and scarf.

"Where are you going?"

"The office. First time you've cared." He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Holmes just stared.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Chapter 9**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It took Poirot a few minutes to decide what to do with Hastings' wallet. On one hand, he could chase Hastings down, give it to him and beg forgiveness, but Poirot refused to do so. It wasn't his fault Hastings couldn't see what was in front of his face – it was rather obvious, especially since the afternoon...

 _It was the fight in the car that started this_ , he thought. _That quarrel with Holmes..._

Earlier in the afternoon, whilst Lestrade and Japp discussed things outside, Poirot had been left alone with Holmes. Holmes had tried discussing the evidence with Poirot. Poirot had declared rather soon in that "Although the connections may elude you, Mister Holmes, they do not elude the great Hercule Poirot!" Naturally, Holmes had taken offence to that, and much bickering ensued, until Holmes had enough and called the Inspectors back to the car.

Poirot huffed in anger, before throwing himself onto his mattress. He'd go with the other option – leave it here and wait for Hastings to return for it. Perhaps his trip into the cold night air will have cooled his temper.

But even though he lay with his mind made up, his eyes yet again were drawn to the innocent wallet lying on the floor across the room.

 _Could he be wrong?_ Poirot doubted it – there had only been a few occasions where he had been wrong, and that was early in his reasoning. Where he had little facts. This time he could not be wrong. He had all the facts in his hands. There was no chance of him being wrong in this instance. But still, a nagging feeling remained at the back of his mind.

_Perhaps learning to be wrong would be of use here..._

_Non,_ he told himself firmly. _There is no use in being wrong_. He stared at the ceiling. Five seconds later he was staring at Hastings wallet again. He sighed. There would be no use lying here, he would get nothing done. He picked himself up from the floor with a little difficulty and walked to the door. Perhaps a walk into the park would do him good.

He was at the door when he turned around. He stared at the wallet for a few seconds before crossing over and pocketing it.

Hastings shivered as he pulled his coat tighter around himself. He wished he'd gotten changed into something warmer – he'd remained in bedclothes that day, seeing as he had no need to leave his bed. His knee was throbbing dully, and was getting worse as time went on. The nearest hotel to Hastings was a half an hour walk, but to him it seemed like decades. Every step he took he wished more and more that he were back in his bed at the new flat, perhaps playing a game of Monopoly with Poirot...

 _No_ , he thought. _Don't think of him now_. _He's in the wrong_. And it was this thought that kept him going through the thick bog of snow towards his destination.

He turned a corner and the hotel appeared before his eyes, an oasis in the desert. Hastings stared in absolute relief. He reached into a pocket of his bag for his wallet, to see how many nights he could stay.

His fingers met thin air. He frowned. He tried the other pocket, then the big one. He even tried the secret pocket. Nothing. He sighed and looked back up at the hotel, its starry lights twinkling jeeringly at him.

 _Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink,_ He thought to himself bitterly. He turned to walk back towards the flat. He had no choice now. Damn his pride, where else was he going to sleep-

 _Wait._ Hastings froze as he realised a most important detail he had forgotten. _The key to the flat. It's in my wallet. And I haven't got it._

This blew an even bigger hole in what little pride he had left. Not only was he going to have to face Poirot, he would have to _beg_ to be let back inside. And knowing the little man's stubbornness when he thought he was right, he would be begging for most of the night. He sighed, before succumbing to the inevitable and shuffled dejectedly back to the flat.

But when he arrived, at twenty to seven, it was not to the welcome he expected it to be. In fact, there was no welcome at all. Poirot had left the flat, as Hasting found out as he knocked on the door for the best part of five minutes. Panic had now settled on him like an uncomfortable blanket, and Hastings started to truly worry about his predicament.

He could not enter his flat because he had no money. He couldn't go to a hotel because he had no money. He couldn't ask any of the Whitehaven staff for a key, since they all went home at six. The only friend who lived near him was Doctor John Watson, but his flat barely had enough room for him and Holmes, let alone a guest. These thoughts raced around his head like a shoal of piranhas, biting at the insides of his head.

 _There's only one thing I can do_ , he thought miserably. He collapsed against the door and curled up into a little ball at its base, closing his eyes. _Poirot would find him when he came back_ , Hastings thought. _For now I'll stay here, maybe sleep a little_...

He drifted into a light slumber, despite his uncomfortable position, and remained there for a good two hours or so, not even flinching as it got colder and colder, nor reacting to the cold winds beating mercilessly at the windows.

He did however notice being picked up by someone, and being carried away from the door, into the cold, dark streets.

Holmes was still staring at the spot Watson had occupied five minutes later. He slowly fiddled with the pipe in his hands, deep in thought.

Had he really been out every night this week? Holmes didn't think so – he'd usually be back around nine, and even so he actually back quite early tonight. It wasn't really his fault that over the past few days almost everyone he'd ever seen on a case had turned up in London, as if someone had posted an advertisement in the newspaper asking for everyone who ever knew him to 'randomly' bump in to him.

He supposed that this must've been the last straw for him. Holmes admitted that his habits might've irritated the normal man, but this was _Watson_. He was used to being up at all hours of the morning. He was a doctor. He had to be. Holmes racked his brains, trying to remember the arguement. Perhaps it would explain his peculiar behaivior.

... _I don't want to entertain your panderings...I don't want to go... First time you've cared..._ These little snippets niggled at the front of his mind, unravelling the binds of his insecurities.

_Was I too harsh on him? Did I not care enough for his well-being? Do I not understand him? Have my habits driven him away?_

_Did I take him for granted?_

These thoughts flew around his brain with the arguments, driving his mood darker and darker into self-loathing.

Watson, to put it bluntly, was his only friend. He was always there by his side, a constant in the raging storm. Only once before had Watson left him, and that was to live with his wife. Holmes still remembered those days, the gloomy days where his only companions were brandy and the cocaine needle.

Watson had returned that time, after his wife had left him. Holmes knew the marriage would be a failure. Watson was a gentleman. His wife was a vixen. It was only a matter of time before she ran to another's arms. But this time, not even Holmes could deduce whether Watson would return to him or not.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. He rocked slowly back and forth, pipe rolling between his slender fingers, fighting these feelings back. He did not need them now. All he needed was rational thought. This was just another puzzle. He could solve puzzles. He even liked puzzles.

He didn't like this puzzle, though.

 _Thump!_ With a sharp, unexpected movement, Holmes slammed his foot on the floor. This would not do. He needed to escape from this flat, escape from this torturous hell of thoughts and feelings. He needed to get out.

With this thought in mind, he marched to the door and threw it open. He leapt the stairs, two at a time. He saw the door ahead. He jumped towards it-

"And where do you think you're going, Mister Holmes?" He looked back. Missus Hudson was stood by the door to her quarters.

Holmes didn't know how to answer. His thoughts were in turmoil. He needed to get out.

Missus Hudson's face started to descend into worry as Holmes stared at her blankly. His hair was a mess. The pipe in his hand was empty. His eyes were hollow and empty.

"Mister Holmes? Are you alright?" Holmes continued to stare, until he spoke. His voice was harsh and croaky. It was a voice Missus didn't recognise.

"I need to get out."

* * *

**Chapter 10: Chapter 10**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Poirot had to admit, this wasn't one of his better ideas. His shoes were sodden, and often his rather rotund frame would shiver from the biting wind. The conditions made it even worse to keep his mind off Hastings, and every now and again he would run his finger along Hastings' wallet.

 _Was I wrong_? Before, he didn't even contemplate the option. Now, cold and tired, the thought always somewhere in his mind, pinching the edges of the numbed corners. And slowly, ever so slowly, Poirot had come to the answer to his question

 _Yes_. He was wrong, whatever his stubborn pride said. Hastings was right. He had no proof of Holmes' 'scheme'. Holmes didn't take his case. It was purely circumstantial.

Sometimes he wished he could stop blaming circumstance on people. Often he wished he had held his tongue in situations. Now he just wished that he hadn't started seeing Holmes as a rival. Perhaps then this mess of a night wouldn't have happened.

He exhaled slowly, his breath forming steam in the cold night air. More than ever, he wanted Hastings back at his side. His over-active imagination would solve this internal conflict. His blessed over-active imagination. He would appreciate it at this moment. Even if his ex-wife didn't...

 _No._ He would stop making up stories. Yes, he had deducted from the missing wedding band and Hastings' avoidance of discussing his life in Argentina that they had separated. But he didn't know why, and he decided he wouldn't know why until Hastings' told him. Guessing without the facts was as useful as... Well, it wasn't useful at all.

Another gust of wind rattled by him and he shivered. He'd been out for at least three hours now, according to his watch, wandering the park and the small side-streets of London town. He felt as if he had explored every inch of the area around his home, every possible crevice. _Perhaps it's time to return home_ , he thought.

He was about to turn back towards the park entrance when he saw a shadow in the distance. It was a person, he could tell, but it was all very odd. It walked lopsided, as if one side of its body was trying to drag it in the opposite direction. Its movements were almost an afterthought – it just needed to move, to move away from something.

Poirot hesitated, before approaching the person cautiously. Yes, Poirot was cold and tired, but he wasn't about to leave someone struggle alone. Not in this weather.

As he neared, he was it was a man. A tall, thin man with ivory skin, tinged purple from the cold. His coat wasn't the heaviest and the rumpled clothes implied distraction. His hair was a nest of black curls, throwing themselves to and fro with the direction of the wind. Poirot recognised him almost a second later.

It was Holmes. But the strong, sure stride and the arrogant jaunt to the chin were gone. In their place were stumbling footsteps and a bowed head. Without warning, the leg he was limping on gave way and Holmes fell to one knee in front of Poirot's feet.

"Mister Holmes?" The question seemed to jolt some life into the crumbled remains of the man in front of him. He looked up, and Poirot could see Holmes needed help. His round grey eyes were hollow and dull, and they looked up at him in absolute sorrow.

Murmuring soothing, meaningless words to him, Poirot lifted Holmes' arm over his head and picked him off his feet. Holmes didn't struggle at all, instead using Poirot as a crutch as Poirot lead them back to his flat.

They may detest each other, but Poirot could see that Holmes wouldn't make it back to Baker's Street in this state. He needed somewhere to stay, and Poirot's flat was closest. Perhaps a cup of tea would be useful. Perhaps a bed for the night. Perhaps even some discussion of what had caused the great man to crumble.

Perhaps there could be a new beginning for the two.

The leather seats of a car pushed against the palms of Hastings' hands as he slowly regained consciousness. There was a coat over the lower half of his body, and his head rested against the back window misted from where it had been breathed on. He looked around sleepily, registering that he was in the back of some vehicle, and that he wasn't driving. He frowned.

_Where am I?_

He tried to figure out what his kidnapper looked like, but since he was sat in the back, all he could see was a head of neatly combed blonde hair. He recognised it, but had difficulty placing a name to it. He struggled to think of who it was.

Meanwhile, the car had turned a corner and was slowing down, until it came to a halt outside a small, single floored house, whitewashed with flowers in the window pots. The driver got out and turned to Hastings, to carry him out. As he turned, Hastings instantly remembered the name belonging to the bright blue eyes on him, shining in the lamplight.

" _John_?" John Watson was stood before him, fuzzy moustache and all. "What's going on?"

"Arthur, I see you're awake." He smiled benignly at him. "Don't panic. I came to see you in your flat, but you were curled up outside the door. So I decided to take you with me to the office where I'm staying tonight. I'm sure we can find you a spare bed."

Hastings looked at him confusedly, until things clicked into place. The argument. Forgetting his wallet. Poirot going out. Sleeping in the doorframe. Someone carrying him away.

"It was you who carried me from the door?"

"Yes. Now, up you get old chap-" He opened the car door, lifted the coat, threw it over his shoulder and helped Hastings' sleep-drunk limbs to find their way out of the car. As the bitterly-cold wind hit him, Hastings was reminded harshly that he was still in his bedclothes.

"-this way, Arthur." Watson was leading him through the door, into what seemed to be a waiting area. Pushing open a door at the far end, Watson led him into a ward with two well furnished bed areas, split by a privacy curtain. Watson pushed Hastings into one of the beds, pulling the thick duvet over his body.

"Thank you." Hastings spoke sincerely. He heard a quiet 'you're welcome' from Watson as he walked over to light the fire, before sleep's claws bound round him and he fell into a fitful sleep.

_The trenches. The sunset's orange beams shining over the muddied fields. Loud yelling, screams. Grenades being hurled over the lip of the trench to hit the advancing war of enemy troops. Hastings was crouched, rifle in hand and ready to fire. Another soldier gives him the signal._

_'Arthur...'_

_He ignores the voice. Springing up from his position, he quickly aims his gun at a charging foe. Click. Bang. Squelch. Centre of the forehead. Perfect shot. The man falls down, either dead or dying. His helmet falls off. Hastings sees the egg-shaped head shining in the remaining light, the curly moustache quivering from the man's remaining life force, the big brown eyes staring at him, imploring helplessly for him to save him, he only did what he was told..._

_Poirot..._

"Arthur!" Someone was shaking him. He flung out his arms, hitting someone or something in his panic.

"Arthur, it's alright!" Watson. _It's only John_ , Hasting thought, relieved. The remnants of the nightmare still clung to him, and it took all his willpower to stop himself from crying there and then. Watson sat down on the side of his bed and lay one hand on his shoulder. Hastings smiled in gratitude.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"You didn't. I hadn't gone to bed yet." Hastings rubbed his face wearily. Watson looked on in sympathy.

"Sometimes talking about it helps." He said softly. Hastings met his gaze. _Maybe John will understand_...

"It was the trenches." Watson's grip on his shoulder tightened slightly. "Amidst a huge rush of enemy forces. I shot down one of them, but..." He shook violently. Watson finished his sentence for him.

"It was someone you care for, wasn't it? Poirot?" Hastings nodded.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I've had them before. Except it was Holmes in the dead man's place." Hastings looked at him as he admitted this, eyes full of understanding. He lay his hand on Watson's, which still lay on his shoulder. Watson carried on speaking.

"They started when I returned to Baker's Street. After Mary had- had left me for another man," His voice broke slightly, and Hastings squeezed his hand gently. "Holmes had not truly forgiven me for leaving him for a woman, and I felt terribly guilty. Since Holmes has forgiven me, they come few and far between. I don't know if something like that has happened to you recently, but that may have started them."

"In fact, something like that has." Watson looked at him. "We lived in Argentina, Dulcie and I, with her twin sister Bella. They were identical in every way, and I kept confusing them. It was funny at first, but..." He sighed. "After a few weeks of this happening, Dulcie walked in on me kissing Bella, who I thought was Dulcie. She divorced me soon after that."

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

"Don't be. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be." Watson looked at him sadly, before squeezing his shoulder once more. They were quiet for a few moments more, until Hastings tried and failed to hide a yawn. Watson laughed.

"I think it's time for you to go back to bed, Arthur." Hastings smiled sleepily, before lying down again and curling up underneath the duvet. Watson walked to the other bed and climbed in, snuggling up in his own blankets.

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Arthur."

And a goodnight it was.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Chapter 11**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It was easy enough to get Holmes up to the flat – a little tugging and a trip up the elevator – but deciding what to do with him afterwards was difficult. At this moment, Sherlock was sat on one of the mattresses, curled up in its blanket. His eyes stared ahead, not focusing on much but his thoughts.

Poirot hadn't been in this type of situation before. He'd calmed hysterical women, he'd wiped away the tears of saddened men. But he'd never faced this... _madness_. This silent, vague madness which had taken Holmes' mind like a possessive wife. That in itself was more frightening than any hysteria he had faced before.

So he did what Hastings would do in situations like these. Hastings' methods with emotion far exceeded his own, and if this didn't work, Poirot doubted anything could.

He walked to the kitchen, and made Holmes a cup of tea.

He didn't know what the English's obsession with tea was, but it seemed to cure them of most ills, and Poirot hoped that it would help Holmes with his illness.

Holmes didn't seem to notice Poirot walk up to him, but jumped when Poirot sat down beside him. Poirot wordlessly offered the tea. Holmes seemed to not understand for a few moments, looking between Poirot and the tea repeatedly, face confused, before a spark of understanding flickered in his eyes and he took the cup from him.

They sat in silence for a while, Holmes drinking tea and Poirot watching him concernedly, until Holmes finished the last drops in his cup. He sat there for a while, swirling the remaining dregs of tea in the bottom of his cup, watching the mini tornado they caused in the middle of the cup.

Poirot considered taking the cup from him, but it didn't seem to be the right thing to do at the time. That is, until Holmes offered the cup back to him. Then, he took it from him with a reassuring smile. Holmes continued to watch him for a while, eyes alight with slight confusion.

After a few seconds, Poirot noticed that Holmes' eyelids began to droop, a little at first until he could no longer open his eyes past half way. Poirot lightly pushed him down onto the mattress, and Holmes let him do so, resting his head on the pillow with a barely audible sigh. Poirot pulled the blanket over Holmes properly, and Holmes curled into it like a small kitten.

Poirot got up and left the room for a few seconds to wash up the cup, but returned within the minute. By the time he had arrived back, Holmes had fallen asleep.

Poirot stayed awake that night, sitting cross-legged on the other blanket which he had folded into a make-shift pillow. A few times Holmes woke up, eyes darting around fearfully, before seemingly remembering the surroundings he was in and succumbed to sleep again.

It was eight o clock the next morning before Poirot moved an inch. He stretched out each of his limbs separately, wincing at the stiffness he felt after being sat still for far too long. He considered the man in front of him for a while, debating what to do with him now.

The best thing for him to do would be to telephone Watson, to tell him that Sherlock was safe and sound in his care. But Poirot unfortunately didn't know his number. Hastings did, but Hastings wasn't around to ask. He studied his plight thoughtfully, until he headed for the front door, a plan forming in his mind.

Poking his head around the doorframe, Poirot examined the hallway before him. It was deserted. The mailman had already come with the mornings post, and a few parcels stood outside his neighbours, most likely early Christmas gifts too big to post through the letterbox.

Poirot studied these boxes with interest, searching hard for something. He saw nothing but gaudy wrapping paper and bright bits of ribbon until... _ah_.

There. Two doors down had just received one for the coming year: a phonebook. Looking around furtively, Poirot scurried down the hall, picked up the book and vanished back inside the flat.

Putting the book on the floor, Poirot settled down again on the floor and pulled the telephone towards him. He flipped the phonebook open and searched for Holmes, hoping that Watson was awake at this time.

Once he'd found it, he quickly turned the dial to enter the number. He waited with bated breath. The ringing of a phone filled his ear, but after a minute of this, Poirot quickly realised no one was awake in 221B Baker's Street. He sighed.

 _Perhaps Doctor Watson is in work,_ Poirot thought suddenly. _Perhaps he runs a private clinic..._ Rifling frantically through the book, he found Watson's name near the end, and with a sigh of relief, Poirot noted that the number was different from the Baker's Street number.

He dialled quickly, and held the handset up to his ear as the ringing started.

Watson was in the small medic kitchen when the telephone sounded, making breakfast. Hastings was with him, nursing a cup of tea, having finished his toast five minutes before. They both started at the sharp ring of the telephone.

"Strange..." Watson said confusedly. "Everyone knows my practice isn't open on a Sunday- Ah!" Watson had lost focus of what he was doing and upended the contents of the teapot on his hands. Seeing his friend's plight, Hastings stepped in.

"Shall I answer the phone for you?"

"If you could, Arthur, thanks." Watson panted, holding the teapot aloft as scalding tea dripped down the sides. "I'll just sort this..."

Hastings left Watson to mop up the spilt tea and crossed over to the phone. He picked up the handset and put it to his ear.

"Hello?" Complete silence. Hastings could hear someone breathing on the other end, but the caller seemed not to want to talk. Hastings was about to hang up, until the caller spoke in a voice full of surprise.

" _Hastings_?" Hastings instantly recognised the voice, having lived with it for several years.

" _Poirot_?" Both were silent with their shock for a few moments, until Poirot spoke.

"What are you doing in Doctor Watson's office?"

"I stayed the night in the ward-"

"In the ward? _Mon dieu_ , are you well? Are you hurt?" Poirot seemed genuinely worried about his wellbeing, and Hastings fury at him from the argument dissipated a little.

"I'm fine, Poirot-"

"You cannot be fine Hastings, you are in a ward! You stay in a ward only if you have a _dommage_!" Poirot had started to babble in worry, and Hastings felt a pang of guilt for worrying him.

"Poirot-"

"Perhaps if I had not been so harsh with you- I was terribly _mauvais_ -

"Poirot!" This stopped Poirot in his tracks for a few moments. "It's alright. I stayed the night here with Doctor Watson because I left my wallet and key in the flat."

"Ah." There was silence for a while. "Hasitings, _je suis très désolé for what I spoke of yesterday-"_

"Poirot, we'll talk about it when I return."

"You are coming back?"

"Yes. You didn't think I'd leave for good?" The silence answered Hastings' question perfectly, and he shook his head in disbelief. _That silly little man_.

"Anyway, you haven't told me why you're calling Doctor Watson."

"Ah, _oui_!" Poirot seemed glad of the change of subject. "I've found Mister Holmes."

"What do you mean, you've _found_ him?"

" _Exactement_. I found him when I was walking. He seems to be very ill."

"Oh dear..."

"I believe it will be of great help if Doctor Watson came to him. He has more expertise than _moi_."

"Yes... We'll be around as soon as we can."

" _Bon. Au revoir,_ Hastings."

"Bye Poirot." He put the phone down and rushed to the kitchen. Watson had manageably tidied up the mess he had made with the tea and was now washing dishes.

"Who was it, Arthur?"

"It was Poirot, oddly enough." Watson looked up sharply at this.

"Odd... Any reason why he phoned?"

"Yes. He's found Mister Holmes."

"Oh." Watson turned back to the dishes with feigned indifference. Hastings wondered whether his and Poirot's quarrel hadn't been the only one that night. It took Watson a few seconds to realise the exact wording of Hastings' statement. He turned back to Hastings.

"What do you mean _found_?"

"I think Poirot found him when walking. Apparently he seems very ill." Watson struggled with himself for a moment, deciding whether to treat Holmes or leave him.

"Did he seem very ill?"

"I don't know, but seeing as it's coming from Poirot, the man who calls the flu 'a mere irritation'..." He tailed off. Watson had closed his eyes and was slowly rubbing his forehead. He looked troubled. Hastings decided to act upon his suspicion that Watson and Holmes had quarrelled the night before.

"John, you may have fought with Holmes yesterday, but he needs your help now. All friends go through fights, but the best ones patch up the wounds afterwards." Watson stared at him incredulously before chuckling softly.

"You're becoming as good as deducting as the detectives." Hastings grinned. Watson grabbed the medical bag from the hook by the door.

"Come on, Arthur. We'd better make sure that he's alright..."

* * *

**Chapter 12: Chapter 12**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Hastings and Watson arrived at the spare flat in record time. Watson had insisted on driving, and Hastings wasn't sure why he let him, looking at the way he careered around the corners. Despite acting indifferent to Holmes' plight, Hastings was pretty sure that Watson never drove this fast to any of his other patients.

The car screeched to a halt in front of Whitehaven Mansions. Watson had leapt the door and was halfway up the steps before Hastings had even registered that they had arrived. He waited for Hastings to exit the car in a more reasonable fashion before carrying on.

"Which floor?"

"Sixth." And off he bounded, taking the steps two at a time, leaving Hastings to follow him up in the lift, knowing that it would be slower for him on foot. The floors gently glided by – first floor, then second, then third, then fourth which held Poirot's original flat, its door covered in police tape, then sixth, where Lauret's flat was, its door shut tight, then sixth.

Watson beat him there, and was already knocking on the door when Hastings stepped out of the lift. Poirot answered the door almost immediately, and ushered them inside with haste. He showed Watson into the room where Holmes lay, still fast asleep. Watson stood in the door for a moment, watching him, until he walked into the room and knelt by the sick man's side. Feeling that the doctor and his patient might need some privacy, Hastings nudged Poirot into the kitchen and shut the door.

The door shut with a sense of finality. It silenced the quiet _clink_ of Watson's medical instruments, so what was left was an awkward silence between the two men. Hastings seemed to be looking everywhere but at Poirot. At the moment, his eyes were resting on the blue teapot which had come with the flat, but it didn't seem to be very intriguing to him. Poirot leant against the empty central island, fingers entwined in thought. It was Poirot in the end that broke the silence.

"Hastings?" For the first time since entering the room, Hastings looked at Poirot, blue eyes staring almost sympathetically.

"Yes?" Poirot seemed to struggle with himself for a few moments. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Hastings knew what Poirot was going to say, but stayed quiet and let the small Belgian man gather his thoughts.

"I... _Je suis désolé_." Poirot finally got the words out of his mouth, looking at Hastings for a few moments before dropping his head again. Hastings could see that these words must've been hard for the proud, stubborn man to say, and he felt a rush of appreciation.

Laying a hand on his shoulder, Hastings replied; "It's fine, old chap." But Poirot hadn't finished.

"It was terribly _mauvais_ of me- I should never have said what I did! I should not have thought it was a _conspiration_ , I was not straight-thinking."

"Thinking straight, Poirot." Hastings automatically corrected. Poirot smiled slightly at the familiarity of the statement. Hastings carried on before Poirot could carry on babbling. "And it's alright. I've forgiven you." Poirot smiled broadly, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Hastings, I am lucky to have an _ami_ like you. After what I said about your old wife-"

"Poirot, how did you know that Dulcie and I had divorced?" Poirot looked a little embarrassed.

"You came back from _l'Argentine_ very sad and with no wedding ring. I connected the two."

"Ah." Slight pause. "Have you figured out why?"

" _Non_." Seeing as Hastings was about to carry on, Poirot held up a hand. "Do not worry Hastings; I shall not pry into your private affairs." Hastings smiled slightly. They lapsed into completive silence for a while.

"I wish they weren't so similar." Porirot looked up. Hastings had moved to the window and was running his hand through his blonde locks. "Perhaps we could've stayed together..." Poirot frowned in confusion before he made the connection.

"Dulcie and Bella Duveen, I'm guessing you are talking about?"

"Yes." He sighed. "If only I didn't kiss her, then..." He dropped his hand. Poirot finally saw what Hastings was trying to tell him.

"That is the reason for the divorce, yes? You had the romantic liaison with Bella, thinking it was Dulcie?" Hastings' slight drop of the head and barely audible sigh was the only answer he got, so Poirot suspected he was right.

If Hastings expected any reaction from the detective, it certainly wasn't the one he received. A few seconds had passed before Hastings suddenly had his arms full of Poirot, who had hugged him round the middle of the waist.

"Poirot, what-?"

"Do not worry, Hastings. You shall live with me and we shall drink tea and play Monopoly for the rest of our days, _oui_?" Hastings grinned once he saw what Poirot meant.

"I think that would be _un arrangement très agreeable_." Hastings replied, trying out his rusty schoolboy French. Poirot beamed.

Meanwhile, Watson had finished his examination of Holmes and had come to a conclusion about what was wrong. His pulse was fine, his temperature fine, but his eyes were despondent and his reflexes... well, what little reflex Watson had found was poor at best.

So Watson had decided on a diagnosis; Holmes was depressed. Now, the only question was how to treat him.

He had the suspicion that Holmes' illness was brought on by what he had said before, and although there were numerous pills and liquids that Watson could force down his throat to help, he thought perhaps talking to him about it would be a better option.

But at that point, the little voice in his mind decided to make a spectacular comeback and mention every reason why he shouldn't treat Holmes; he didn't care for him, he'd only hurt himself again...

It had almost convinced him that dumping him back in Baker's Street would be the best option when a message of Hastings' drifted to the forefront of his mind; _All friends go through fights, but the best ones patch up the wounds afterwards._ And that in itself was more than enough to drown the voice for the time being.

"Holmes?" No reaction. "It's Watson." A little twitch. Watson felt as if he was talking to a brick wall, but he carried on anyway.

"Look... I'm sorry for what I said at Baker's Street. It was harsh, and most things were untrue. "I was irritable and tired. I shouldn't have lashed out. I shouldn't have said you didn't care." Still little reaction from the detective. Watson sighed tiredly and gave up, packing his instruments back into his bag.

"Watson, do you know what it's like to be alone?" Watson looked up; Holmes' tone made him sound old and tired. "To many it is the deepest pit of hell. To have no one to turn to, no one to care for... It can send a man insane. The ache of what used to be is a wound that doesn't heal, which is why many seek a companion for life, or stay alone. I understand why those who are left alone commit suicide – it is better to be dead than to live without someone."

Watson was completely confused by his speech at first, until understanding dawned upon him. This, he supposed, was Holmes' way of explaining his feelings. Explaining that he didn't want Watson to leave, that he would die without him... Watson was touched, and was at a loss for words. Instead, he settled for an arm around the shoulder. Holmes curled into it like a cat seeking warmth, and it was in this position they remained for a few minutes.

"Come on, let us go back to Baker's Street." Holmes silently nodded in agreement. They both got up, Holmes with a little help from Watson, and headed towards the front door, Watson's hand a comforting presence on Holmes' elbow. Before leaving, Watson quickly put his head around the kitchen door to tell Poirot and Hastings that they were leaving.

"I'm going to take Holmes back to Baker's Street. He'll recover better there." Hastings and Poirot, who were stood talking by the window, nodded at him in understanding.

" _Oui_ , I understand. _Au revoir,_ Doctor Watson."

"Bye John."

"Bye Arthur, Monsieur Poirot." He vanished from the door way. A few seconds later another figure appeared in the door, but it wasn't Watson. It was Holmes.

"Monsieur Poirot?" Poirot turned towards him.

" _Oui_?"

"...Thank you." They looked at each other for a while, as if silently communicating some secret message. After a few moments, Poirot smiled and nodded.

" _De rien_." Holmes tilted his head in reply, before disappearing from the door. Poirot and Hastings heard the front door close a few moments later, signalling the departure of Watson and Holmes. Poirot stared at the direction of the noise for a few moments, thinking deeply, before turning to Hastings with a smile.

"So Hastings, we shall start on the rest of our days with a game of Monopoly and some tea, _oui_?" Hastings smiled and reached for the teapot.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Chapter 13**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It was a week before Holmes came out of his funk to work on the case. According to Watson, Holmes had taken to following him around like a lost puppy, even to his work, where Watson forced him to stay in his private office. Naturally, Holmes had made Watson promise to check in on him after each patient.

Poirot was unnaturally patient through all this. Instead of pacing around like a caged animal like Hastings expected him to, he often sat down and played Monopoly with him. He sometimes took Hastings on walks around London, and they frequented their favourite cafes.

Today however, Watson had called them just after midday tea. Hastings had a lengthy conversation about nothing in particular with him at first, until Hastings spotted that Poirot was taking the time to rearrange the Monopoly pieces mid-game.

The message which was relayed to Poirot after Hastings won the game (rearranging the pieces had caused Poirot to go bankrupt on his next turn) was this; Holmes and Watson were heading to the murder scene with the Scotland Yard inspectors, and that they invited them to join them. They had both readily agreed, naturally, and within ten minutes, both were hurrying down the stairs, their shoes clicking on the marble steps.

The other detectives had arrived around twenty minutes later, though to Hastings' surprise and Poirot's general understanding, they had brought a guest; Jemima, the Laurets' maid. Watson later confided in them that Holmes had asked her to come, for one of his peculiar reasons. It was something along the lines of he wanted to examine the Lauret's flat too, but Watson had been too busy hurrying to catch up with the detective to hear much.

Hastings supposed that Poirot knew what Jemima was needed for, but at this point Poirot was busy inspecting the edge of Miss Lemon's neatly ordered desk. Holmes was inspecting the edge of the carpet nearest the door, looking at the impressions scored into it. Everyone knew better than to disturb the two men at work, so they all stood back into the narrow hallway, peering through the open glass windows.

"Mister Holmes, what do you think?" Holmes rose up onto his haunches and looked to where Poirot was pointing. Leaning forward, Hastings could see exactly what Poirot was pointing at. It was a large smear of blood, coating the sharp edge of the decorative table border.

"Hmm... Fascinating. If you see here-" Poirot looked over at the carpet that Holmes was inspecting. Poirot understood completely, although the others were completely in the dark. "If the murderer placed the body here, then why is there blood on the desk?" They looked at each other for a few moments.

"Wait, what do you mean _placed_?" This was Japp, his voice tinged with confusion. Lestrade was thinking along the same lines.

"Are you saying that the girl wasn't murdered here?"

" _Exactement_."

"Yes."

"But how? If the killer had killed Lucy in the flat above, the murderer would've been heard going down the stairs outside by Jemima, since it's impossible to close a door when you've got your hands full, plus the stairs echo terribly." Japp pointed his thumb at the sullen maid behind him.

"And two men can't stand side by side in your hallway, Poirot. It's too narrow." At Poirot's silence, Holmes took over to explain.

"You see here and here-" He pointed at the bottom lock of the doors first, then the upturned edge of the carpet. Both were streaked with some sort of substance. "These places are covered in shoe polish, which tells us that someone must've kicked the door open. The person, in his or her haste, tripped on the rug, turning it upwards. I'm pretty sure the person then dropped the girl and ran." The hallway crew looked at him in amazement, until Lestrade found one flaw in his master plan.

"How can you prove that after opening the latch, they didn't push the door with their hands?" Holmes was silent for a moment.

"Check it with forensics if you don't believe me. You won't find a single print on that door that is newer than two weeks."

"What about Miss Lemon, the secretary?" This time it was Poirot's turn to answer.

"Miss Lemon was wearing the gloves that day, and I did not open the door that day. Miss Lemon used the window to communicate." He pointed to the window which led into his sitting room. Japp nodded sceptically.

"Alright, let's say you two are right. How do we propose to find the murderer? If the body was placed here, then it's impossible to find the murderer!"

"A slight snag I assure you." Holmes declared boldly. "But perhaps we may find evidence in the flat upstairs." He turned quickly to Jemima, who was standing head bowed in the background. "Miss Jemima, could we use your key to enter the flat?"

Jemima looked at him oddly. "I don't have my key."

"Yes you do. Left pocket, I heard it ring on the way in." She reached into the aforementioned pocket. A look of surprise crossed her face as she pulled out her key.

"I..." She looked at Holmes, shellshocked. Holmes smirked, before taking the key from her loose grasp.

"Shall we, lady and gentlemen?"

The first room they inspected was the kitchen. Holmes and Poirot got on their hands and knees once more to examine the room from head to toe. But this time it was not the crawling detectives who spotted the first clue. It was Watson.

"Look there! It's the shoe polish again!" Both detectives whipped round to see where Watson was pointing. There, on the lowest drawer of the cabinets, was a smear of what was undoubtedly white shoe polish. They studied it with great interest."

"Miss, does anyone in this house hold own a pair of white shoes?" Jemima started slightly at the surprise question from Poirot, but spoke her answer regardless.

"Why yes, Lucy did. And Miss Lauret probably did too."

"Did Miss Lauret come in here at any time?" This was from Holmes.

"Yes. She cooked dinner. She always cooks dinner when she visits. Always her special tomato soup. Lucy loved it. She cooks it in that ratty old pot over there." She pointed at a large soup pot, sat upside-down on the draining board. Poirot bounded over to investigate.

" _Mon dieu_...Mister Holmes-" Poirot had turned the pot over and was studying its contents. When Holmes had not responded to his call, Poirot turned around to see where he was.

The kitchen was devoid of Holmes. Everyone looked around curiously, wondering where he had got to. Lestrade leaned out the door to check the hallway. Empty. Japp checked under the small table in the corner. Nothing. Watson looked for an open window. They were all closed.

"Isn't that his shoe?" Hastings asked, pointing at the edge of the counter. A black boot pointed out from underneath a red-checked tea-towel, its edges coated in red from being used to tidy small spills, no doubt. Hastings lifted its corner. Sure enough, Holmes was underneath, examining the towels. There seemed to be a small space before the countertop ended, where small hooks showed that it was purposely built to store towels and oven mitts.

"Nothing...I was seeing whether there was any hairs on it, but there's only the girls hair. It seems to be a regular hiding spot." He opened his palm and showed them all a clump of golden hairs. Poirot nodded.

"A clever idea, Mister Holmes." This was Poirot speaking. "But come, see this pot." They both turned to look inside, missing the whispered " _See? Getting along nicely!_ " which Japp had sent to Lestrade, who glowered at him.

What had captured Poirot's attention about the pot was that it was old and well used. Its metel on the outside was a bronze colour and tarnished, whilst the inside was corroded beyond repair, the dull, orange inside rough to the touch as Holmes ran his fingers over it. A little came off in his hand, staining his fingers a fiery orange.

"Miss Jemima, why haven't you replaced this pot?"

"It's not ours. It's Miss Lauret's. She always brings it. Says that it's state adds to the flavour of the soup." Watson and Hastings wrinkled their noses in disgust.

"Tomato and metal soup? No thanks."

"My thoughts precisely, Arthur." The two men grinned at each other. The detectives had moved on however, searching the drawers and cupboards.

"Inspectors, Watson and Captain Hastings, a little help would be appreciated." Holmes said, head inside a cutlery draw. They all set to work immediately, Japp and Hastings taking the uppermost cupboards due to their heights, Watson and Poirot tackling the draining board, leaving Holmes and Lestrade to take the drawers. Jemima shuffled awkwardly, having not been asked to help but wanting to anyway. In the end, she took the outer circumference of the room, which included the table, a few bar stools and a fruitbowl.

They had only been working for a couple of minutes at the most when Lastrade let out a horrible cry. The crew gathered around him to see his discovery.

Lestrade had opened the boot-polished drawer, and laying amongst the sharp metal tools of the kitchen, there was a large knife, its blade coated in scarlet.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Chapter 14**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

At first there was a stunned silence. Nothing moved, not the curtains, nor the air. Time itself seemed to slow to an absolute stop as everyone stared down at the evidence before them.

This moment was shattered by a piercing scream and a wet _thud_. It had proved too much for Jemima, who had never seen so much scarlet, so much _blood_ , so much _human_ blood-

She had collapsed almost immediately afterwards, skin as pale as marble, and as cold as it too. Her head hit the tiled floor with considerable force, and blood had started to flow out from underneath her head. This elicited another stunned silence from the crew, until Watson regained his senses and knelt to see the wound.

"Call an ambulance." His voice was low and steady. "She needs one. Arthur, hand me a towel." Lestrade ran out of the kitchen and down the hall in search of a phone, obviously glad to escape the atmosphere of the room. Hastings wordlessly passed the towel over, watchingWatson worriedly as he deftly pressed it to the wound to staunch the bleeding.

Japp and the detectives stayed at the drawer, inspecting its contents.

"There's quite a lot of blood, it's on all the other objects in the drawer." Japp pointed at parts of the drawer, where more scarlet was splattered against the other kitchen instruments. Poirot and Holmes studied it thoughtfully, heads cocked to one side.

"A knife cannot carry that much blood, can it Mister Holmes?" Poirot asked after a few seconds of completive silence.

"No." Holmes confirmed. "So how is this all here?"

"Hmm..." Japp rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps someone killed her in here, and his the knife? The maid?

" _Tout à fait_ _possible,_ Inspector. Could you please telephone some _scientifiques_ to come here and test the blood?"

"But that'll take weeks to be finished!"

"Inspector..." Japp sighed in defeat.

"Of course, Poirot." He got up, using the counter for support and made his way out the door, just as Lestrade bustled in from the hall.

"Ambulance is on its way, Doctor Watson. How serious is the wound."

"Quite serious. There's a tremendous amount of blood, but that's to be expected from a head wound... Could someone hand me a fresh towel?" Hastings leaned back and pulled one of it under-counter hook and gave it to the Doctor.

"Thank you." They stayed in silence for a while, watching Watson care for his patient.

"How long until she recovers?"

"I don't know, until we get her examined at the hospital. But I expect with one this bad, around a week or two..."

Whilst the three were discussing the health problems of the young maid, Poirot and Holmes continued to inspect the knife. With a surreptitious glance around, Holmes dipped his finger into the scarlet mess. He lifted in to his finger and sniffed.

"Is it blood?" Poirot questioned.

"Seems to be..." Seemingly on impulse, Holmes licked his finger clean. Poirot watched him do so with barely-hidden disgust. Holmes however tilted his head sideways and ran his tongue along his teeth and inside his mouth.

"It's not blood." He finally decided, wiping his saliva-covered finger on the corner of a nearby tea towel.

"How?"

"It smells exactly like blood, with a metal tang and all, but you can taste that it isn't. The consistency is entirely wrong, and there's a flavour of spices to it."

"Ah... _Bon_. I see." He was about to ask another question, but at that moment Inspector Japp returned, being followed by a crew of paramedics. Despite the snow and the cold, they had still arrived in record time. Hastings, Watson and Lestrade backed away from the body, Watson nodding to one of the paramedics he recognized, before they swarmed the body like a pack of vultures. One had a stretcher, and whilst they transferred Jemima onto it, it was the exact moment the forensic scientists decided to make their appearance.

This then cause a large amount of awkward shuffling and trodden toes as the paramedics and the forensics attempted to work around each other, then failed dismally at it. In the end, Japp had simply yelled at the forensics to stay in the living room and await further instructions, which allowed the paramedics to carry the maid down the narrow hallway.

"Inspector Japp!" This was Poirot calling, weaving through the swarm of people with general ease, Holmes following him closely. "Should we tell the family of Miss Jemima's accident?"

"I suppose we should..." Japp answered reluctantly. It was obvious that Japp hated to be the bearer of bad news, mostly because most families tended to be either over-emotional or blame him for the unfortunate occurrence.

"We shall tell them, if you wish Inspector. I have a question for Miss Lauret anyhow, and it would be easier to do both events at the same time." Japp looked relieved.

"Thank you Mister Holmes. I'll drive both of you there once I've told the forensic lot what to do."

On their way there, Holmes had requested a detour down Baker's Street. It took some time for Japp to be convinced that it was of great importance that they did so, but fifteen minutes later they found themselves parking on the side of the street.

Holmes clambered out of the car and walked purposefully towards a lump of a boy who sat on someone's doorstep. The boy looked up when he heard Holmes approaching, before a wide grin of recognition spread across his face.

They conversed for some time, Holmes explaining animatedly and the boy listening intently. When the discussion ended, Holmes dropped a silver coin into the grubby palm of the child, and the boy scurried off down a small alleyway.

Returning to the car, he was greeted by the confused faces of Poirot and Japp. He explained is actions briefly to them.

"That was Wiggins. An Irregular. I've asked him to look out for Mr Lauret." Poirot was still confused. Japp decided not to ask.

They arrived at the house around half an hour later. It was Miss Lauret who answered the door this time. She led them into the same room as before. It hadn't changed in the slightest, apart from the fact that the cards had been tidied neatly into a pile.

"Miss Lauret, is Mister Lauret in?"

"Unfortunately no. He's gone out on one of his little walks again. But I'm sure I can answer any questions you may have, Inspector." She beamed at Japp, and he had the distinct impression that she was attempting to flirt with him. He shuffled uncomfortably.

"Unfortunately madam, I have some bad news." Her smile faltered slightly.

"Bad news? What sort of bad news?" Japp remained silent. Poirot decided to answer her questions over Japp.

"It is Mister Lauret's maid, Miss Jemima. She has suffered an accident and is on her way to hospital." Miss Lauret seemed to take this news reasonably well – only sinking into a nearby chair showed her worry.

"My god... Is she alright? What happened?"

"I hope she will be, Miss Lauret. But she has suffered from a _blessure à la tête-"_

"Head injury." Holmes quickly translated from his corner.

"-and we do not know whether she has suffered any ill-effects."

"I see." She was quiet for a moment. "Thank you for telling me personally, gentlemen. I'll pass the news onto my brother. If that is all-?" With a nod of consent, she led them back into the hall. Before leaving however, Holmes turned back to Miss Lauret.

"Miss Lauret, you don't happen to own a pair of white shoes, do you?" She looked surprised at the question.

"No, I don't. White shoes are so high maintenance, unless you have a good maid or a strapping young man-" She looked at Japp (who, thankfully, had his back turned). "-to clean them for you, there's no point in having them, is there?"

"I suppose not. Thank you, Miss Lauret." And with that, he strode after Poirot and Japp to the police car.

The journey back to the flat was a mostly uneventful one, apart from Japp's erratic driving and one important event. As they turned a corner onto a quiet street, they spotted a young boy jumping and waving his arms at them. On closer inspection, it was Wiggins, the boy Holmes had spoken to earlier. He seemed to be flagging them down, as if he wanted to tell them something.

Holmes asked Japp to pull over as he pulled the window down. Wiggins immediately ran to them and started talking to them as soon as they stopped.

"Job was easier than expected, sir. Spotted that man Lauret just as you left."

"Ah! Good work, did you follow him?"

"I did, sir. Followed him right to the park, all fifteen minutes of the journey."

"Go on."

"Well, he went to the really private part of the park, the part where it just looks like a huge bush. Almost lost him there, but found him again soon after."

"And?"

"He met with another man there, sir. They seemed to be good friends; all they seemed to do was hug. Hardly a word passed between them." Holmes frowned in thought.

"Did they do anything else?"

"No, they didn't. But they looked right cosy, I'll tell you that."

* * *

**Chapter 15: Chapter 15**

* * *

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize profusely for the late update to this daily-update story. I've been ill since Saturday, but it finally took me down on Wednesday, which is why there hasn't been an update since then. Rest assured, I'm writing Wednesday's, Thursday's and Friday's today, and Saturday's and Sunday's tomorrow.** _

_**Sorry for the wait, but I hope you enjoy this chapter.** _

**A Study at Styles**

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. It seemed that Poirot had figured out where Lauret fitted into the mess and was thoughtfully digesting the news. Holmes was staring out the window, face blank. Japp was focused on nothing but driving to the flat as fast as he could.

They slid to a halt in front of Whitehaven Mansions at around half past four. They took the lift up, gliding swiftly up to the fifth floor. When they arrived, they found Lestrade had called a fleet of policemen in and was picking the flat apart. Lauret was with him, for some inexplicable reason that neither detective nor inspector could fathom.

"Good afternoon, gents." Lauret greeted them with a nod of the head.

"Afternoon, Mr Lauret."

" _Bonjour_."

"Mr Lauret. What brings you to this neck of the woods?" This was Japp, looking at him as if he were some perplexing puzzle he was trying to figure out.

"Well, I went to the park – to clear my mind, y'know – happened to meet Eric there, he's an old friend of mine, and on the way back I thought I'd... pop in, to see if there was any mail which hadn't been forwarded to my sister's address. Imagine my surprise to find the place swarming with police!"

"Quite the shock, I'm sure." Poirot noted at once from his tone that Japp didn't believe Lauret's story about 'clearing his mind' – and neither did he. Cuddling up to someone in a park did not mean the same as 'clearing your mind' in his view.

Lauret hadn't noticed the disbelief shared by all bar Lestrade (seeing as he didn't know of what Wiggins had discovered – Holmes or Japp would probably fill him in later, probably Japp) and had continued nattering on.

"I mean, I would've _never_ expected L-Lucy's m-m-murderer to be one of us! Or the murderer to try and frame us for it! It's all so very strange – have you discovered any clues, detectives? Any leads? New suspects?" He looked so desperate at the end, Poirot felt a pang of pity for the man. He considered telling him a suspicion of his to cheer him up, but Holmes had other ideas.

"It has to be kept under wraps for now, Mister Lauret. We don't want to incriminate someone completely innocent." Lauret sighed, saddened.

"I completely understand. I just hoped there was something you could tell me..."

"We have almost solved it. Do not fret, monsieur."

"You have?"

" _Oui_." Lauret looked vaguely cheered with this piece of news.

"That's all good then, isn't it? But I think I've overstayed my welcome a bit, seeing as there's a police investigation going on." He turned to Lestrade. "Is it alright if I go back to my sister's, Inspector?"

"Feel free."

"Thank you. Good day, gentlemen." And with a swish of his long brown overcoat, he vanished out of the door. Lestrade watched him go thoughtfully.

"Nice man, he is. Can't really believe he lied about where he was when we first interviewed him – have you found proof of that, by the way?" He looked towards Holmes and Poirot.

" _Non_."

"We got... distracted." If fighting and making up with their respective partners-in-crime counted as a distraction. But Lestrade seemed to buy it, nodding like a little nodding dog.

"I see. Only to be expected, seeing as you've been focusing on finding clues. And by Jove! That knife was a big one! Especially with all that blood..."

"Yes," Japp agreed. "But how is there..."

As the Inspectors discussed the evidence, Poirot and Holmes exchanged a slow look. It was obvious that neither of them had told their respective officers that it wasn't blood on the knife. And looking at the rate the two inspectors were forming theories with the knife, they wouldn't take the news too well.

"-what do you think, Holmes?" Japp and Lestrade were looking at them. Both detectives seemed to come up with a plausible explanation, one which Holmes had not been listening to.

"Probable..." He started slowly, picking his words with care to make it seem he was actually listening. "But I don't think so."

"Don't think so? If you two have 'almost solved it' as Poirot said-" Poirot pointedly looked somewhere else. "-then I think you should be more sure than 'I don't think so' when it comes to saying that our explanation is wrong!"

"I haven't an explanation yet, Inspectors, because there are a few things that don't add up, such as why Mr Lauret lied to us just now!"

"Lied?" Holmes looked at Lestrade, just dawning on him that Lestrade wasn't there when they spoke to Wiggins earlier.

"He went to the park before he arrived here, yes, but it wasn't to clear his mind. It was to meet with another man. One of the Irregulars kept an eye on him for me."

"Constantly touching and hugging from his report." Japp added. Poirot could not be sure, but he thought he heard a faint lining of disgust to Japp's words.

"Ahh... Sounds like a male sapphic, doesn't he?" Everyone silently stared at Lestrade, who fidgeted uncomfortably. Poirot, however, was confused.

"Sapphic?"

"Homosexual, Poirot." Japp answered. "And come to think of it, I wouldn't be surprised if he were."

"Why, Cheif Inspector Japp?"

"He's a complete fop, susceptible to tears, promiscuous from what his sister told us about him... And no _normal_ man would meet another for a hug." Poirot was certain now, there was a hint of disgust in his words. It was obvious to him that Japp did not like homosexuals, although he could not see the problem.

"That is wrong, Inspector?" Japp sighed. Poirot still had much to learn about Britain.

"Not only is it terribly wrong Poirot, it's also illegal!"

"And it is a complete mockery of love. It is supposed to be shared between a man and a woman, not..." Lestrade shuddered. He seemed to share Japp's attitude, an attitude that Poirot did not completely understand.

Holmes could sense the discomfort in the air and changed the subject quickly, keen to avoid a discussion on a law that both inspectors passionately upheld.

"Where's Watson? And Captain Hastings?" The question threw the inspectors off, who looked confusedly at him until they registered what he'd said.

"Oh! They left a while back. Watson wanted to do something in Baker's Street, and Hastings offered to drive him there."

"Hmm... I don't think there is much else of use here, so I'll return to Baker's Street."

" _Bon_. And I shall wait for Hastings at my flat." Japp started to suspect that the boys were trying to escape the situation, and decided to leave them.

"Sure. We'll probably see you later Poirot, Mister Holmes." They nodded at each other in farewell. Poirot and Holmes left the flat, whilst Japp and Lestrade went to examine the evidence found by the police.

"Poirot."

" _Oui_?"

"When we reveal who it is, the police cannot be there."

"Why not?" Holmes shifted uncomfortably, a notion foreign to him, even through Poirot's eyes.

"Because I think Lestrade is right – that man, Lauret's friend Eric, the man he was embracing, was his lover. I do not think it's right to put a man behind bars for loving someone. And it might be inadvertently revealed."

"I understand. You are thinking like me, _non_? _Bon_ , I shall see you soon, Holmes." Holmes didn't reply, instead whirling down the stairs, seemingly forgetting that it was easier to take the lift.

It was a while later when Poirot noticed that he and Holmes had dropped the formalities of 'Mister' and 'Monsieur'.

Holmes arrived back at the flat, expecting Watson to be there, perhaps talking to Hastings on the settee, a tray of tea and biscuits on the side.

What he didn't expect was an empty flat, devoid of Watson, Hastings and tea. Holmes called out for him, but no-one replied. He then spotted the note pinned to the mantelpiece by three long, silver pins. He crouched slightly to read it.

_Sherlock, gone for a meal with Hastings. Will be back before nine - John_

Holmes didn't mind this – at least he had told Holmes where he was going. And Holmes could pass the time doing other things, such as play the violin, or conduct an experiment, whatever mood he was in.

But Holmes was in no mood for the fluid sounds of the violin, nor the concentration of a delicate chemical reaction. He wanted something he didn't need much effort to get enjoyment out of, something he could enjoy whilst relaxing in a chair...

He needed his cocaine.

He rose from his half-crouch position by the fireplace and went to the shelves. He pulled the mahogany Moroccan from its resting place and balanced it on the side of the settee. He opened it and checked its contents.

Tourniquet, yes. Solution, yes. Syringe, ye- no.

Something was missing from the end of the syringe. The needle. Strange. He never removed the needle, unless he was washing it. He looked for the spares. Gone, too.

 _Watson's probably hidden them away-_ Holmes started to think, until his eye was caught by the note still pinned to the mantelpiece. The silver pins... they didn't own long silver pins like that, and he doubted Hastings carried them around in his pocket.

It dawned on him that the pins weren't pins at all. They were three long, shiny, silver needles. Even Holmes wasn't mad enough to use needles which have been stuck in a mantelpiece.

He sighed. This would be a long night.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Chapter 16**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Watson had a brilliant time with Hastings. It was nice to have a dinner partner who didn't insist to deduce things about the waiter whilst eating, even if it was for Watson's enjoyment.

They hadn't planned to go out for dinner; it was more spur of the moment. Once Watson and Hastings had made sure Jemima was safe and on her way to hospital, they regrouped in the lounge, the only room at that moment not being overrun by police. They talked for a while, before Hastings declared he looked overworked and needed a meal out.

It had come as a pleasant surprise to Watson, and he accepted gratefully. They had gone to a relatively new restaurant on one of the back streets leading off of the main road of cuisine-based buildings. Hastings remembered it from years before, having been there with Poirot once before and enjoyed it immensely.

It wasn't an upper-class, posh restaurant; it was more like a cosy pub, minus the drunken idiots. It was warm, with a large fire blazing, and they served homely foods, such as toad in the hole and bubble and squeak. The owner and his daughter, who helped out with waitressing, were exceedingly friendly, and they spent the night eating, laughing and discussing life's events.

Overall, a very enjoyable night. He now stood smiling outside 221B Baker's Street, waving to Hastings as he drove back to his and Poirot's flat. He turned and entered the house and climbed the stairs, expecting Holmes to be experimenting or something.

When he left a note for Holmes, it was on impulse he used Holmes' needles as pins. He was worried what Holmes would do on his own, especially since they fought over a week ago, so he took out the main enemy – the cocaine.

He would've hidden his chemicals too, but he knew that Holmes would just get more from the stash he kept in his bedroom if he'd tried. So he thought that he'd covered most possibilities for Holmes to get hurt.

He was wrong.

Walking into the flat, Watson was treated to the sight of Holmes sprawled across the coffee table, staring at the ceiling, happily chattering away to himself.

"Holmes?" Holmes seemed not to hear him. He raised his voice. Holmes talked louder to himself. Ignoring him, then. Watson strode up to him and stuck two very cold fingers on his neck. Holmes gave a loud 'Eep!' before rolling off the coffee table, escaping from Watsons' cold fingers. But Watson had discovered enough.

Dilated pupils. Erratic heart rate. Slight temperature. Holmes was under the influence of cocaine, for definite.

 _But how?_ He hadn't used the needles, they were still stuck in the mantelpiece. He checked the Moroccan box. The syringe was as he left it, with needle still unattached. The inside of it was dry when Watson ran his little finger up and down the inside.

The bottle of seven percent solution was gone, but Watson spotted the empty bottle resting underneath one of the armchairs. That left one possible answer – Holmes had drunk all of the solution. And Watson knew that there was more cocaine in Holmes' solution than was safe.

So he did the one thing he could do. Dragging over an empty bowl from Holmes' science apparatus, he set it on the now empty coffee table. Unceremoniously, Holmes was lifted from his position on the floor and deposited on the sofa, then forced to be violently sick in the bowl.

Watson knew purging was not a nice thing to go through – it wasn't any nicer having to perform it on a friend – but it was the best thing for it. Remove as much as possible from the system.

Holmes did not look happy when he resurfaced, but Watson expected that. None of the patients he had to purge ever looked happy afterwards.

"Watson. Why?"

"You drank the whole bottle of cocaine. I was making sure you didn't die."

"I wouldn't have _died_. Seriously Watson, there wasn't much in the bottle-"

"How was I to know that? And either way, cocaine is dangerous to your health, so I had a right as your doctor _and_ as your friend to make sure you weren't hurt!" He was silent for a while.

"Watson, you can be insufferable at times."

"I'm worried about your health."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not!" Watson got up and started pacing. "You don't sleep, you hardly eat. Your weight is severely below average. You use cocaine and Hell knows what other chemicals you mix up with your chemistry set! I don't think you can claim to be 'fine'!"

"I don't mix drugs-"

"Oh yes. Just like 'you're not addicted to cocaine'! Yet you still take it!"

"It helps-"

"Don't give me that rubbish about how it 'helps' you think! It doesn't, and we both know it!"

"So what?" Holmes had risen and stood to face Watson, who had stopped pacing. "What now, Watson? Do you want me to stop taking it?"

"Yes, but I know you won't!"

"How? How do you know? You're no psychic-"

"Because you're a stubborn fool, but it's hell to watch you like this!"

"If it's hell to be here, then why don't you leave!" It wasn't a proper question, it was a demand. A demand that Watson adhered to.

As the door to the flat slammed shut, Holmes sank into the settee, hands over face and shaking his head back and forth.

_What have I done?_

As the door to 221B shut ominously behind him, Watson shivered from the cold. The sub-zero temperature and the falling snow threatening to become a blizzard did not make tonight the best day to be kicked out of his flat.

He shouldn't have made such a fuss of Holmes' health, but that man could be the most obstinate man in London when it came to matters concerning himself. He still didn't understand how Holmes managed to survive without anyone before he met Watson – illness should've killed him, or his dabbling in explosive chemicals.

But no, Life seemed to favour Holmes, and had somehow let him live on his own for a while. Possibly on magic. He snorted, amused by his thoughts. But although sceptical of magic and psychics, Watson wouldn't be surprised if Holmes did live on magic those few years. Anything could happen with Sherlock Holmes.

A few flakes of snow floated down the back of his neck, and Watson was keenly aware he had left his coat inside. He looked up at the building, considering whether to get his coat or not. In the end, he decided not to – Holmes' demand for him to leave left no room for debate.

He then debated whether to sleep in a hotel or his office. He knew his office had better bedding and was warmer, but it was a good hour's walk from where he was, and in this weather it wouldn't be a very pleasant one.

He doubted he would sleep anyway. He'd worry about Holmes most of the night, and the rest of it he'd plan out his apology to Holmes. It was always the same, whenever they fought. This, when concerning cocaine, was often.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to talk to someone. Desperately. He had been completely irritable this week, and someone to help with his problems would be the perfect tonic for his pains.

But who? He had few close friends, and none of them lived close. But...perhaps Hastings could help him. They had known each other for only two weeks, but in those two weeks, Hastings was almost like a brother to him. He was kind and funny, and most of all he understood things about Watson that Holmes could not.

But even if Hastings felt the same to Watson, he doubted he'd be very happy to have Watson turn up on his doorstep at this time of night. Watson checked his watch. It was quarter past nine.

Five minutes later, he decided he didn't give a damn, and started the trek to the flat.

Poirot and Hastings were sat discussing the case when Watson called. Having been filled in on the details earlier, Hastings was still as confused as he was when they started on the case.

"So one wound, a body which was placed and something which isn't blood? My God, Poirot, I can't make head nor tail of it."

"Ah, you have forgotten that all our suspects have the solid alibi."

"Yes... Jemima could be heard in the kitchen, you were at the station, Miss Lauret was in bed and Mister Lauret was out stargazing. Who could it have- Hang on..." Hastings rubbed his forehead, as if trying to remember some important detail of the night. Poirot watched him intently.

" _Oui?_ "

"Mister Lauret couldn't have been stargazing that night... it was cloudy, remember? I wanted to see the English stars once I got off the train, but I couldn't!" Hastings looked excitedly at Poirot, thinking he had discovered something Poirot had not, but unfortunately he hadn't as his face fell at Poirot's expression. "You knew already, didn't you?"

"I had guessed." Poirot admitted. "But you have given me the proof which I need."

"Oh... But that means Mister Lauret's the murderer! He's the only one who could've!"

"Perhaps. But there is one suspect you haven't accounted for. One we have not yet spoken to..."

"Who's that?"

"It is-"

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ The front door knocker echoed through the house. Hastings looked towards the front door.

"Who could be calling at this hour?" He got up and went to answer the door.

Shock was too weak an emotion to describe how he felt when he found Watson stood outside his door, face tired and emotionally dampened.

"Arthur, I apologize for calling at this late hour, but would it be possible to talk to you?"

* * *

**Chapter 17: Chapter 17**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Hastings studied Watson for a time. His head was bowed, and his arms lay crossed over his chest. The tip of his nose was red like a cherry, and Hastings suspected his cheeks were the same colour too. Every once in a while, he would shiver, though he tried to repress it. _He must've walked here from Baker's Street,_ Hastings thought worriedly. He ushered the man in from the cold wintery corridor.

"Poirot! Could you make some tea?" An affirmative noise from the living area was his reply, as he hurried Watson into the lounge. He quickly wrapped Watsons shivering form in a blanket from his bed, and pushed him down to sit on it.

"Thank you." Watson said sincerely, curling into the blanket. Hastings settled down next to him on the bed.

"You're welcome. Now, what was it that you wanted to talk about?" Watson looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. Hastings took this to mean it was something that was hard to say. He waited patiently for Watson to gather his thoughts.

In the meantime, Poirot came in with the tea. Placing it in the hands of Watson and Hastings, he silently exchanged a glance with Hastings. Hastings shook his head. Poirot vanished back into the kitchen, on the pretext of fixing something.

Hastings doubted Poirot had ever fixed anything in his life.

But it wasn't Poirot he was supposed to be focused on now, it was Watson. And Watson seemed ready to speak his mind.

"It's... It's about Holmes."

"Go on."

"It's like... he doesn't _care_."

"About you?"

"About...anything! Anything except his work!" Watson threw the blanket off of his shoulders, got up and started pacing, tea still in hand.

"First he doesn't care about himself! He barely eats, he doesn't sleep, he takes cocaine, he regularly sets the flat on fire – He'll kill himself if he isn't careful! He _knows_ he'll kill himself if he's not careful! Does that stop him? No!"

"Second, people's belongings! He has no qualms about stealing my clothes and crawling around in the mud with them, and not a problem with ruining someone else's house to solve a case. If he breaks something, does it move? Does it get fixed? Or does it get left on the floor for me to tidy up afterwards?"

"Then it's other people! His clients, Lestrade, me! He's completely insensitive! If someone's obviously upset, does he comfort them? Oh no, he's too busy analysing the carpet underneath their feet! He doesn't feel! He's like... like a _robot_ sometimes!"

Hastings was listening intently to Watson as he raged whilst pacing around the room like a caged lion. He could understand Watson's feelings perfectly – he himself had felt them sometimes when Poirot was on a case. Nothing got between him and the job, not even Hastings – but he tended to look after himself better than Holmes seemed to.

When Watson finished, he sat back down again and fumed for a few minutes, sipping his tea quietly. When he spoke again his voice was quieter and thicker.

"I know he's old enough to look after himself, but... _damn it_! How am I supposed to stay at the sidelines when he's there risking his life every single day of the week?" For lack of anything better to do, Hastings rubbed his hand over Watson's shoulder.

"I know..."

"Do you though?" Watson looked at him, as if trying to read into his very soul. "Do you know what it's like to come home from work and find the sofa on fire? Do you know what it's like to live with a man who claims your underwear as his every other day? Do you? Do you?"

"No," Hastings admitted quietly. "But I know the feeling of not being cared about."

Watson studied him, looking for any sign of deception, any sign that he was just being nice, but Hastings blue eyes shone with honesty, and he found himself trusting them. He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck again.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ranted..."

"It's alright; we all have our problems, so we all need a release once in a while." Watson smiled slightly.

"Thank you. For listening."

"You're welcome."

"It's just... what can I do, to show him that I'm only worried? He doesn't listen to me when I tell him..." He drifted into silence, before turning to Hastings. "What would you do?"

"Me?"

"Yes. What would you do if Poirot cared for nothing but work?"

To be honest, Hastings hadn't thought of the possibility of Poirot forgetting about his health, unless forgetting about health meant avoiding the dentist. Trying to imagine Poirot not eating, not sleeping, setting the flat on fire... No. It was almost impossible. Food and sleep were Poirot's best friends, and he doubted Poirot would ever risk burning his near-perfect flat.

But what if he took drugs, like cocaine? What would he do? Hastings considered the problem thoughtfully. If Hastings found Poirot taking drugs, he supposed he would leave him. Still be a friend, but distance himself. Or he'd dispose of the vile concoction that Poirot (theoretically) injected himself with.

And perhaps then Poirot would (theoretically) see the error of his ways and stop. Perhaps apologize to Hastings, and they would go back to their everyday life of tea and detective work.

But Holmes was a different man altogether. Hastings didn't know much about him – he was fanatical about his work, slightly introverted, stubborn and that pretty much concluded his list of Holmes' traits.

To Hastings, Holmes seemed the type of man to carry on doing things even if the world around him was burning. Even if he lost Watson because of the drug, he would still take it, to solve the pain if not out of habit. He turned to answer Watson.

"It's a difficult question. I don't think any amount of screaming, crying, begging or threatening can convince him to quit until he's ready to himself." Watson looked down and sighed.

"I thought so myself."

"But..." Watson looked back up at him, brown eyes wide and enquiring.

"What?"

"I think, I mean I would personally..." He struggled to find the right words. "I'd... create boundaries. Distance myself. It might not work with Holmes – he seems very independent – but it may be worth a try. He may try and care, even if it's for your sake and not his own."

"You really think so?" Watson's eyes were hopeful, and Hastings felt a twinge of regret that he didn't think so, only hoped.

"I hope so, John. I really do."

On his way back, Watson considered what Hastings had to say. He could see the logic in his suggestion – any normal person would value friendship over drugs.

But this was no normal person. This was Sherlock Holmes, the most eccentric, mad, unpredictable person this side of London. Normal people didn't play the violin at three in the morning. Normal people didn't steal their flatmates clothes. Normal people didn't spend days on end moping on the sofa when they were off work.

Holmes did all those things, and more. So how would normal ways to help him work in any way at all?

But did he have much choice? There was nothing he could say to Holmes to make him change his ways. Holmes knew that no matter what Watson threatened him with, he would always stay by his side. The detective business was like a drug in its own way, and coupled with Holmes' friendship, it was a drug that he had made no attempt at escaping from.

Yet. It was a horrible prospect, leaving Holmes at Baker's Street and never returning, but perhaps it was the only way. Boundaries wouldn't work – Holmes would only break them. So why not leave to get him to stop?

 _Because you can't afford a place of your own? Because he's your friend and you won't be able to withdraw from him for that long?_ He knew the voice's reasoning was right, but he did have his office where he could stay. And as for withdrawing from Holmes... it was a challenge he would face if it meant Holmes would begin to care for himself.

It took him a few moments to notice he was stood outside 221B Baker's Street. Its painted windows looked at him sadly as he looked up at the place he had called home for the last few years. He memorised every outside detail; the wooden door, the brass knocker, the four white stone steps leading to the door and that so much more that made the house his home. He sighed and entered the house.

He climbed the seventeen steps wearily, feeling their bends and squeaks as if they were his own. He opened the top door to the flat and entered the cosy living room. It was almost normality; the fire was blazing merrily, the room resembled a landfill site and Holmes lay despondent on the sofa, fiddling with a pipe whilst watching him. But Watson was here with a purpose, and no matter how hard it was, he had to stick with it.

"Holmes, perhaps you can look after yourself better without me. I'm moving out."

* * *

**Chapter 18: Chapter 18**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Sherlock stared at Watson for a while, before laughing. Loudly.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Watson walked over and picked up a few small items of his – namely the silver snake knife that Holmes was so fond of throwing at walls, mantelpieces and other people. The man himself still lay stretched out on the settee, watching him intently.

"You said yourself 'If it's hell to be here, then why don't you leave'. And that's what I'm doing." He turned from the mantelpiece and stared straight into the steel-grey eyes of his roommate's eyes. "I'm leaving."

With that, Watson left Holmes to go to his desk in the corner. Pulling out a nondescript black trunk, he placed the knife and the other items in a small pocket in the lid of it. He then started reshuffling papers and tidily arranging them into piles; short stories, long stories, descriptions, essays and-

He paused when he found the first of the many adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The one in his hand was the first one he had penned, the one he had affectionately called "The Study In Scarlet". He read a little, before putting it in the trunk lid. When he found other adventures, he placed them in a separate pile.

"Here you are Holmes, It's your choice what you do with them." He dropped the piles of adventures on the coffee table. Holmes watched him do it, and it suddenly started to dawn on him that perhaps Watson wasn't bluffing at all.

"Watson-"

"No."

"Please-?"

"I said no, Holmes!" Watson finished packing his papers, and was dragging it to the shelves. He started to pull out books which were his and packing them on top of the papers. Holmes was now sat up on the settee, watching him worriedly.

"Watson, please reconsider-"

"No, Holmes. I'm leaving and I'm not coming back until you care somewhat about yourself!" The statement ended in a yell. Holmes sat in silence as Watson started to pack the medical tomes at the end of the bookshelf.

"You'll be back." It was a statement from Holmes. It was said surely, leaving no room for discussion. Watson would be back. He could never stay away. He'd be back.

Or so he thought. He had no idea the strength of Watson's resolve. And Watson definitely had no plans to come back, until Holmes had cleaned up his act.

"I won't. You'll see." He bound one of the weaker books with some string which was hanging around. He was so absorbed in his task that he didn't notice Holmes by his side until he took one of the books from the trunk and put it back in its rightful place on his shelf.

"Holmes..." Sighing, he packed the one he was binding and reached for the newly removed book. Holmes took the chance to grab another book from the trunk. He was about to put it back when Watson snatched it from his hands.

Reaching for a new one, Holmes found himself turned around and his hands clasped in a steely grip behind him. Watson was tying them together with another piece of string.

"That'll keep you occupied for a while." He turned back to the pattern. Holmes fiddled with the knotted string for a while as Watson went back to packing. Watson knew Holmes would escape from the string soon, but John Watson was _very_ good at tying knots, which is what Holmes realised after a few seconds of struggling. He needed to cut the string to get free.

He strode to the bathroom. Using his teeth, he pulled the bathroom cabinet open. John hadn't gotten round to emptying the bathroom yet, so all his toiletries remained – including his razor.

It took a while, but Holmes somehow managed to head-butt the cupboard enough for the knife to become dislodged from its resting place and clatter to the floor. He then picked it up, employing the use of a strange crab position to reach it.

By the time he had successfully retrieved and used the razor, Watson had vanished from the living room. Rubbing his wrists, Holmes did not have to look far to find him in his bedroom, emptying his closet. His bedside cabinets were bare, but Holmes was pretty sure Watson's scour of the room had not reached under the bed yet. Which meant Watson had a lot of packing to go.

Holmes still had a chance to convince him.

"Watson, why won't you stay?"

"I made my reasons perfectly clear. You don't look after your health-" He paused to throw Holmes out of the trunk in which he'd tried to lie in whilst Watson was distracted. "-so the obvious thing to do would be to leave."

"But you're my doctor! Aren't you supposed to be the one looking after my health?"

"Yes, but not when you blatantly refuse to listen!"

"What if I started to listen?"

"You won't."

"I would."

"Fine then. Burn the Moroccan box. With everything inside it."

"No!"

"Then I'm right; you won't listen to me, so I'll have to leave." Holmes was silent. Watson carried on packing his clothes. He noticed that around a quarter of his clothes were missing – stolen by Holmes, no doubt. Briefly he entertained the thought of forcing Holmes to return them, but he dissipated it soon after; he'd never get them back in the same state that they were before Holmes got hold of them.

He finished packing his clothes and turned to collect the random items that had collected under the bed over the years. Lying on his stomach, Watson started pulling things out at random; a knitted sweater, an empty chemical vile, something which smelt distinctly of strawberries and a handful of lost buttons were some of the more normal things underneath the bed.

Holmes had settled himself on his stomach opposite him and stared at him with puppy-dog eyes, as if this alone could stop him from leaving. Watson ignored him, no matter how many pointed sighs or sad blinks he gave.

Once Watson had packed everything from under the bed (excluding the strawberry thing – he didn't know what it was, so it wasn't getting packed), he half expected Holmes to sit on the case like a petulant child and refuse to get off.

What he didn't expect was Holmes to hug him tightly around the middle.

"Holmes-!" He tried to disengage from Holmes, but Holmes had him held in such a way that it was near impossible to disentangle himself from him.

"Holmes, kindly get off."

"No." Watson sighed.

"Holmes, stop acting like a child-"

"You're not leaving." Unfortunately for Holmes, he had seriously underestimated Watson's military strength, so although Watson couldn't untangle him, he could still pack with Holmes firmly attached to his side like a limpet.

So Holmes was dragged around the flat like a teddy bear is dragged by a child – that is, along the floor, with not much thought given to it. Although it was obviously uncomfortable for him, he refused to let go. That was until Watson finished packing everything from the bathroom, and went to the chest of drawers by the fire.

Holmes knew this chest of drawers well. It wasn't special in any way – just a normal, dark wood box with three drawers. But it was the contents that he knew were important to Watson. In these drawers, Watson kept everything that was special to him, for example, records of his academic achievements and an object from their first case. For a time, a ring for Mary Morstan rested in those drawers, and so did their marriage certificates.

It was at this point it hit Holmes that Watson was lost to him, Watson was leaving.

Watson wasn't coming back.

Holmes felt his arms go slack as he fell back to his knees. If Watson realised the difference in weight, he made no obvious allusion to it, instead pulling papers and sentimentalities from the drawer and placing them carefully in the trunk, which he had somehow managed to drag around the flat alongside Holmes.

Holmes rested on his knees, torn between screaming like a child and resigning to the obvious fact that nothing he could do would change Watson's mind.

Except burning the Moroccan box, but he wasn't about to do that. No matter what Watson said, cocaine _did_ help with cases; it showed him possibilities he couldn't have thought of without it. Holmes pointedly ignored the fact that none of his cocaine-influenced solutions had ever been right.

And anyway, after Watson had gone, cocaine might as well be his only friend.

Watson closed and clipped the trunk shut. The _click_ of him doing so rang through the silent flat with a sense of finality. He glanced around his old home for the last time, reminiscing about the memories that had happened here – visiting it with Holmes, moving in with Holmes, joking in it with Holmes on a rainy day...

He strode to the door. As he reached it, he turned to face Holmes a final time.

"Perhaps I'll be back, once you realise the harm you are doing to yourself." The door snapped shut as he left.

What Watson didn't realise was that he would be back no later than ten days afterwards.

* * *

**Chapter 19: Chapter 19**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It was December twenty-second. The snow on the ground had almost doubled in deepness, meaning the streets of London were as silent as the grave. No one dared go out in the snow apart from the police, and even they had given up using the police car to get anywhere – the wheels had a very big problem of becoming stuck in random potholes of snow.

The only person on the streets today was Inspector Lestrade, pounding the pavements as if he had some personal vendetta against them. The wind around him whipped at his coat-ends, causing them to dance behind him as he fought through the snow.

Lestrade was frustrated. He wasn't just frustrated – he was very frustrated. He had been keeping an eye on 221B Baker's Street for a while, and he was very surprised to see Watson dragging what seemed to be all his belongings into his car. This was just over a week ago – ten days to be precise. Since then, Lestrade had attempted in vain to contact Holmes, since he had no idea where Watson was.

Unfortunately for him, Holmes seemed in no mood to communicate with the outside world.

He had unplugged his phone, for a start. Lestrade didn't think much of it – Holmes might've needed to unplug his phone for a reason to do with the case. Lestrade then went to visit him, but was stopped at the door by Mrs Hudson, and it was her who gave him the reason. The reason why Holmes had unplugged his phone.

Watson, it seemed, had left 221B Baker's Street for good.

Mrs Hudson told Lestrade of her attempts to contact him, but he had locked his door. He never replied when she yelled up the stairs for him. Like Lestrade, she had discovered his phone was unplugged.

This had continued throughout the ten days. By the end, Mrs Hudson was desperately worried. She had no idea whether Holmes was dead or alive. And if he were alive, how did he eat? The food Watson had retrieved before he left would've run out by now, and not even the great Sherlock Holmes could live on air, no matter how hard he tried.

So in the end, Lestrade was frustrated with the whole thing. He was frustrated that Holmes would not leave his room. He was frustrated that he didn't know whether Holmes was dead or alive. He was frustrated with everything to do with Holmes, if truth be told.

So, after gleaning an address from Mrs Hudson, Lestrade started the long, arduous trek to the one man who could persuade Holmes to do many things – Doctor John Watson, the man who was currently living in his office.

And that was where he had just arrived – Watson's office. He checked his watch. Five past four. Watson would've finished with his last patient by now, and would be cleaning up before doing whatever he did in the evenings.

So with great purpose, Lestrade pushed open the door and entered the empty waiting room. Watson was there, calmly mopping up wet snow from the floor.

"I'm sorry," He says, not looking up. "I've taken my last patients for the day-"

"I'm no patient, Doctor Watson." Watson looked up, and his face broke into a grin.

"Inspector Lestrade! What a welcome surprise! Come in, I'll put the kettle on..." He led them into a small, cramped office, equipped with a desk, some cosy armchairs, many drawers, a sink, a small burner and a kettle. He quickly filled the kettle with water and set it on the burner, lighting it as he went.

"So, is there a reason why you are here? Or have you just come around to say hello and other niceties?"

"I wish there were no reason for my visit today." Watson looked up concernedly. Lestrade settled into one of the armchairs in the room.

"Oh. Why, is something the matter?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and pushed on. "It's Holmes."

As soon as he mentioned the detective's name, he could see the shutters come down on Watson's eyes, leaving his face a blank, emotionless mask. _If he's trying to hide his emotions_ , Lestrade thought to himself, _then it's obvious he cares, but doesn't want to care_.

"What about him?"

"Mrs Hudson and I are seriously worried about him."

"When are you not?"

"Watson, we never usually worry because he's with you. Well, I don't, Mrs Hudson does. But we've been exceptionally worried as of late." The kettle whistled, so Watson went to attend to it, taking two mugs and two tea bags from a drawer as he went.

"I don't see why you've come to me about it. I haven't spoken to him in weeks, and if you haven't noticed I'm no longer his doctor." He prepared the tea and gave one of the mugs to Lestrade and sat down opposite him.

"You're the only person who can talk to him-"

"And what? What should I say? He kicked me out. And I'm not going back whilst that cocaine bottle is anywhere near the flat. He's probably gone and bought more, knowing him-"

"He hasn't." Watson stared at him sceptically.

"How would you know?"

"He hasn't left the apartment since you left. Mrs Hudson can confirm that for you."

"He must've left at some point! To get more tobacco, to get food, to finish the case-"

"Mrs Hudson can confirm he hasn't left the house since you left it." Lestrade repeated slowly. He took his mug of tea and sipped it.

"Then how do you know he's still alive?"

"We don't. And that's what we're worried about. From what Mrs Hudson said, all movement stopped around four days ago." Watson struggled with himself for a while, before trying to play the 'I don't care about Holmes' card.

"I'm sure he's fine, Inspector-" Lestrade slammed his fists on the table, all patience gone.

"Holmes has not left his flat in ten days! He's unplugged his phone, locked his door and won't reply to anyone talking to him through the door!"

"Well,-"

"What little food there was in the flat would've surely run out by now! We have no idea whether Holmes is dead or alive in there!"

"But-"

"Watson, you're the only person who has even the slightest possibility of talking to him! You're our only chance to make sure he's fine!"

"I don't care-"

"Don't you dare tell me you don't care about Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade glowered at Watson, who had the grace to look a little ashamed. "I know that you do, otherwise you wouldn't be pulling an emotionless mask over your face every time someone mentions his name!"

Watson silently studied the carpet. Lestrade finished his tea, before rising. When he spoke, he was noticeably calmer than he had been a few moments ago, but the icy edge to his words remained.

"I don't know what's happened between you and Holmes, and to be honest I don't care. But please, can you just apologize and get on with your lives? Holmes obviously can't get by without you, and I'm certain neither can you." With that, he whirled out the door.

When he left, Watson dropped his head to his desk and groaned. To be honest, he'd been expecting a visit from Lestrade sometime soon, trying to convince him to go back, but he hadn't been expecting Lestrade to be so... _convincing_.

He supposed Lestrade must be a better interrogator than Watson gave him credit for.

But he hadn't expected that reaction from Holmes, either. Holmes was the type of person who would do the exact thing someone left them for just to spite them. But this... this was different. It was like the first time they fought this December – Holmes just curled up and _gave_ up.

It was one of the few times Holmes had ever given up on anything. And it frightened Watson more than it should.

Holmes had never given up on a case either, but Watson supposed he had given up the case with the little girl, if he hadn't moved from his room. He speculated briefly whether Poirot and Hastings would've carried on, but then he remembered the circumstance in which they joined forces. Poirot could not have carried on even if he wanted to – the police still considered him a suspect.

The pressure was mounting on Watson to apologize, not only for his sake, but for Holmes' health and Poirot's job. But Watson still remembered the reason why he had left, and it was this which made him hesitate. Was Holmes' behaviour because he'd been taking cocaine?

 _You idiot, he drank it all, remember!_ Watson could've slapped his forehead as the voice in his head reminded him of the rather obvious fact. If Holmes hadn't gone out to get cocaine, then he couldn't have any in the flat.

Watson drained the last of his tea, rose from his seat and grabbed his medical bag. He had a detective to fix.

* * *

**Chapter 20: Chapter 20**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes was not dead. Yet.

When Watson left, Holmes sulked for a while, before deciding to get on with life as normal. He didn't _need_ Watson – he'd gotten on very well before he met him. He could carry on as normal.

Or so he thought.

Holmes had forgotten how lonely and bitter he was before they met. Yes, he had a few acquaintances he spoke to from time to time, but otherwise all he did was work in the labs. Work and work and work. No contact at all.

It was easy to slip into the skin of the lonely and bitter man he was, but it was harder to forget John Watson. He'd plan to go out, until he'd realise he'd have no-one to entertain him with conversation. He'd make enough food for two, until he'd realise he had no-one to share it with. He'd make a sarcastic comment, only to notice there was no-one to reply.

It was irritating. Terribly irritating. He thought of calling Watson to speak to him, until he remembered he was gone and could be anywhere in London. Holmes could've always deducted where he was, but he suspected Watson would've put the phone down anyway.

Talking of the phone, it rang. Its ring was sharp and shrill, and smashed the quietness of the flat into smithereens. For a fleeting second, Holmes thought it could be Watson, but he remembered Watson didn't want to talk to him.

He stared at the phone whilst it rang, debating whether he wanted to speak to anyone at this moment. He decided he didn't want to talk to anyone but John Watson. He leant over and unplugged it. Then he regretted it and switched it back on. It started ringing again. He turned it off, then locked the front door. Watson wouldn't be returning, so no-one needed to enter the flat.

He spent the remaining hours randomly doing activities. He played the violin. He made new chemicals. He smoked his pipe. He ate the food he had made. He hunted through his wardrobe and changed into clothes he had stolen from Watson before he'd left.

That was all on the first day of Watson's absence. On the second day it was the same. And the third. And the fourth. It was all the same up until the fifth day.

On the fifth day, everything went to hell. He ran out of food. He ran out of tea. He ran out of tobacco. He still had no cocaine, seeing as Watson kept popping into his head whenever he thought of going out to buy some. The room stank of smoke. His chemistry set had melted into unrecognizable gloop. The strings on his violin had snapped.

He thought of going out and buying some more things, but then he realised that he didn't have anyone to correct him during the shopping, in case he bought entirely the wrong thing. So he settled back on the sofa.

His eyes wandered towards the Moroccan box. Before Watson had left, Holmes took cocaine when everything went wrong. Took it and hoped everything would be fine when he came out of his haze. And usually, it was fine afterwards. Somehow. Holmes never knew how, but it was always fine after cocaine.

Watson didn't approve. Watson never approved of cocaine. And it was him stopping Holmes from buying more. Watson had finally succeeded in stopping Holmes' drug habit, and Holmes didn't like it one bit. The Moroccan box mocked him from its place on his bookshelf. Mocked him for not being able to use it. Mocked him for being too weak to forget about Watson.

On the sixth day, he burnt the Moroccan box.

Holmes expected someone to go and get Watson. But he never thought for one second Watson would come running back to the flat. But here he was, charging up the stairs as if his life depended on it. _Bang! Bang! Bang!_ Watson knocks on the door.

"Holmes?" Holmes looked up, hardly believing his ears. It couldn't be – he said he wasn't coming back...

"Holmes, are you in there?" Holmes tried to yell back, but he couldn't. He was too weak, and his tongue felt thick, dry and heavy in his mouth. He hadn't moved from the settee since burning the Moroccan box, meaning he hadn't eaten nor drunk anything. Even Holmes knew that no food and no water for four days meant no strength. He couldn't even push himself into a sitting position.

It was here that Holmes finally appreciated Watson's worry of his health – the nagging, the watching, the occasional force-feeding... If there was something Holmes hated more that the lack of a case, it was helplessness. And that was what this was – him helpless whilst his friend – _his best friend –_ worried himself sick outside the door.

"Look Holmes, I'm sorry for leaving." _Sorry for leaving? He left for a good reason._ Holmes tried to get up again to open the door, but failed to even prop himself up on his elbows without them shaking violently. He dropped back onto the settee with a sigh.

"Sherlock, please reply..." But Holmes couldn't, no matter how much he wanted to. His treacherous body refused to obey, and the only thing that came out of his mouth was a quiet groan.

"Sherlock? Holmes, are you even there?" _Of course I'm here! Where else would I be? Even if I were dead, I'd still technically be here, seeing as my body wouldn't have moved_. This was the thought process which ran through Holmes' head at Watson's word. He struggled to rise again, but yet again he failed dismally.

"Holmes, I'm breaking the door down." Holmes smiled slightly at this. The door was three inches thick and the weight of a small buffalo. The lock was steel. He doubted Watson would be in the room within the hour.

_Bang._

_Thump._

_Crash._

Holmes was wrong. Watson did get through the door. Somehow.

Watson collapsed to his knees when the door broke. He knew how strong the door was, so he didn't expect it to be quite that easy for the door to open. The adrenaline from worrying that he was going to find a dead body probably helped somewhat.

Talking of dead bodies, where was Holmes? He flicked his head back and forth, scanning the room for the elusive dark-haired detective. He soon spotted the recognizable tuft of black peering over the edge of the settee and rushed over.

Steel-grey eyes peered up at him from the settee, and Watson sighed in relief. He was alive, thank God. But there was something off about him. His body was thin, much too thin. His skin was dry and dusty like uncooked rice. He was smiling, yes, but the lips around the smile were cracking and bleeding. He was far too quiet, too unmoving. It was disconcerting.

Watson pulled the stethoscope from his bag (how it survived flying through the door Watson didn't know) and checked his pulse. Weak. But it wasn't this that worried Watson.

When he put his hand on Holmes' chest, it was uncomfortably bony. Holmes had always been thin, but this wasn't thin; this was _emaciated_. He could count every rib on Holmes' chest as he placed the stethoscope end to his chest.

Holmes still wasn't moving, not even flinching from the cold metal of the instruments. He didn't squeak in surprise when it suddenly hit his chest. He lay there, despondent and silent. Watson left Holmes' side for a while, but returned quickly with a pitcher of water and a cup of brandy. He carefully administered the liquids, massaging Holmes' throat when he couldn't swallow.

"Holmes, when was the last time you ate?" Holmes' reply was quiet, the brandy only giving him some energy to speak. His tongue, wet from the water, seemed to have lessened in size, enabling him to enunciate his words properly.

"Four days, I think." Watson looked at him, eyes wide open in surprise.

"Four days? Holmes, how are you even alive?" He shot to the door and yelled for Mrs Hudson. "Mrs Hudson! Could we have some chicken broth up here soon, please?" He rejoined Holmes by the settee.

"It's gone." The outburst was a surprise for Watson, and it confused him.

"What-?"

"It's gone, Watson. All gone."

"Holmes, perhaps you should lie down." Watson tried to calm the man, thinking the lack of food and water had driven him insane.

"No, Watson! Can't you see?" Watson was silent. Holmes carried on. "It's gone, all of it! The vial, the needles, the box! The box is gone, Watson." He pointed towards the bookshelf. Watson followed his arm, and saw what he meant.

The Moroccan box had gone. Watson's plan had worked. It didn't make him feel any better though – Holmes was still lying on the settee, still a miracle for being alive. But Holmes carried on talking.

"I burnt it. It's in the fire, you see. The ashes are there, if you want proof. I can-"

"Holmes, I believe you."

"Really?" There was a childish glimmer in Holmes' eyes, a glimmer of hope. "Does that mean you're coming home?"

"Yes, Holmes. I'm coming home."

* * *

**Chapter 21: Chapter 21**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

It was Christmas Eve before Poirot and Hastings heard from Watson and Holmes again. It was to be expected – since Watson's impromptu visit (the details of which Poirot had figured out, even though Hastings blatantly refused to tell him), it was obvious that they would have to wait for some time before Holmes climbed out the hole he was in and carried on, with Watson or without.

Poirot had been unusually patient during the waiting process. There were no complaints from his corner, no impatient puffing on a cigarette, no pacing nor any impression that the wait bothered him at all. This was odd, since the Poirot Hastings knew hated waiting for anything.

When Hastings questioned about his strange patience, the only answer he received from Poirot was this: "I must wait for Mister Holmes; it is _our_ case, _non?_ "

Hastings highly doubted that was the only reason, but kept his thoughts to himself.

They were playing cards when the call came. During the absence of Holmes, Poirot had somehow convinced Scotland Yard to allow them to take more items from their old flat, and they had allowed them three more things; cards, a radio and Poirot's vanity box, which held wax and combs for Poirot's moustache.

They had been playing silently for no more than half an hour when the phone rang sharply, jolting Hastings from his thoughts, which consisted of whether he should play a jack or the two of spades.

Poirot had already reached over and answered it while Hastings' brain caught up with everything else that wasn't to do with the card game.

" _Allô?_ "

"Poirot." It took a moment for Poirot to recognise the voice.

"Ah, Holmes! I trust you are well?"

"Yes, very well." Pause. "Doctor Watson and I will be interviewing the last suspect today, at her sister's home. Will you and Captain Hastings join us?"

" _Bien sûr_. What time?"

"Half two, at the house?"

" _Bon_. We shall see you there."

"Of course." Poirot put the phone down. Hastings, who had been watching, spoke up.

"I see Mister Holmes is better."

"And Doctor Watson it seems."

"They've made up?"

" _Oui._ "

"That's splendid! So, what did they want us for?"

"They are going to interview the last suspect today, and Holmes has kindly asked us to go with them."

"Another suspect? But I thought we had interviewed them all!"

"Ah, but we overlooked this lady, because we already trust her."

"Oh. Even you, Poirot?"

"I did not think her relevant until recently – but her actions on the night will surely explain something to Poirot."

"Ah." Pause. "Who are we visiting, then?"

"We, Hastings, are going to visit the last suspect – Miss Lemon."

They arrived at the house on time. Both Watson and Holmes were waiting for them outside, the back end of Watson's car peeking out from around the corner showing how they arrived.

Poirot and Holmes greeted each other with a nod and a smile. Hastings and Watson shook each other's hands firmly whilst talking like old friends. They continued to talk about this, that and the other as the small group headed to the door. Holmes reached up and rapped sharply on the door.

The door was answered by someone who looked like a taller, brunette version of Miss Lemon. Poirot immediately recognised her as Miss Lemon's older sister, Marigold Walker.

"Ah, Mrs Walker! It is a pleasure to meet you once again."

"It is very good to see you are well, Monsieur Poirot. I guess you and your friends-" She indicated to the men surrounding him "-would like to speak to Felicity?"

"If it isn't too much trouble, _madam_."

"None at all. Do come in, I'll call her down." She led them into her plush sitting room, adorned with family photos and potted plants. A set of comfy-looking seats were set in a small circle in the middle, set around a round coffee table. As Mrs Walker left the room, the men settled in the seats, Hastings and Watson still talking to each other animatedly.

It was only a short while before Miss Lemon arrived in the room. As soon as she entered the room, Poirot was crossing the room towards her, smiling.

"Miss Lemon, how nice it is to see you again!" He kissed her on both cheeks.

"Monsieur Poirot, I was wondering when you'd come to ask me questions." Miss Lemon replied warmly, accepting the greeting with a smile. "How's the flat been holding up without me?"

"Unfortunately, we have not been able to stay there. It is a scene of the crime, _non_?"

"Oh, I see." Pause. "Have the police examined the room?"

" _Oui_."

"They haven't ruined my filing system, have they?" Poirot face broke into a grin.

"No, because that is Hastings job." Miss Lemon smiled back at him in amusement.

"Talking of Hastings, where is the man?"

"Right here." Hastings had moved across the room whilst Poirot and Miss Lemon were talking. He also greeted him with two kisses on either cheek. "It's very good to see you again."

"And you too, Captain Hastings. Did you enjoy Argentina?"

"Why, yes I did. But I did find I missed London, so I returned."

"Ah, that explains why you're back." She peered around the two men to see who else was in the room. "Monsieur Poirot, you haven't introduced me to these friends that have accompanied you!"

"Ah! I apologize, Miss Lemon." He turned towards Holmes and Watson. "This is the detective Mister Holmes, and his friend Doctor Watson." Miss Lemon went to them and shook their hands.

"Very nice to meet you both. I think Marigold told me about your exploits around this part of London, Mister Holmes. She reads the stories that Doctor Watson writes. They're very good." Watson blushed lightly.

"Thank you." In the pause that followed, Miss Lemon settled on the seats, whilst Poirot and Hastings returned to theirs.

"I'm guessing you'd like to know what I was doing on the day I found the body?"

"If you could tell us, yes."

"Well, I was with Poirot until around eight, where he left to go to the train station to meet Hastings, who was coming back from Argentina. I was a bit worried when Poirot hadn't returned with Hastings by ten, so I left the flat and went to stand on the steps to see if I could see them. I waited there for about an hour, before I went back to the flat. There I found that little girl – dead by my desk."

"Thank you. Could I ask you a few questions?" This was Holmes asking, leant forward with his chin resting on his folded fingers.

"Fire away."

"When you left the flat, did you leave the door open?" Miss Lemon frowned in thought.

"Come to think of it, I think I did... I definitely can't remember closing the front door until I was back inside it." Holmes exchanged a significant look with Poirot, a glance that Hastings and Watson didn't understand until later in the day, and a glance that Miss Lemon would spend the evening puzzling about.

"Did you hear anyone on the stairs when you returned?"

"No, I didn't." Holmes dropped his head in thought.

"Thank you, Miss Lemon. You've been of great help to the case."

"You're very welcome." The men rose and trouped to the door, each saying their farewells on the way out.

"Miss Lemon, I do hope you will be able to return to the flat soon." Poirot kissed her on the cheeks again.

"I do hope so. In the meantime, please keep Captain Hastings away from the files. I don't want to know what state he'll get them in..." Hastings laughed from behind Poirot, overhearing the statement.

"Don't worry, Miss Lemon. I'll try and keep my hand off of them." As Poirot moved towards the front door, Hastings leant down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "It was lovely to see you again."

"And you, Captain Hastings."

He left the house and shut the door behind him. Holmes, Poirot and Watson were gathered on the front lawn waiting for him. He joined them, making the group into a little circular huddle as he did so.

"Have you almost solved the case then, chaps?" Hastings directed this at Holmes and Poirot.

"Almost, Captain Hastings."

"But we will need time with our little grey cells."

"Yes. We need to find links to some of the evidence."

"And choose what is irrelevant."

"Ah, I see."

"I still don't see how much of it fits together." This was Watson, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

"Neither do I, John. We have a dead girl, a father who lied about going stargazing, something which isn't blood and a murderer who trips over carpets. What conclusion can we gather from that?"

"We don't know yet, Hastings," Poirot spoke calmly. "But perhaps we can figure it out tomorrow."

"Perhaps we can find some more clues in the flat." Watson suggested.

"Perhaps... Shall we meet there tomorrow? One o clock?"

"Two o clock. It is Christmas tomorrow, after all."

" _Bon_. Perhaps afterwards we could have a Christmas gathering."

"That's a splendid idea, Monsieur Poirot." Watson spoke from his corner in obvious glee. "We'll have to plan it tomorrow." Holmes nodded beside him. Hastings grinned.

"If you don't mind, I think Watson and I shall return to Baker's Street. It has become bitterly cold out." Holmes said in the pause, shivering slightly. Watson looked at him with concern.

"We'd better – I don't want you to catch anything, since you're not fully recovered from last week. Goodbye Arthur, Monsieur Poirot."

" _Au revoir_ , Doctor Watson."

"See you tomorrow, John."

With that, both parties split their respective ways, each entangled in their own thoughts.

* * *

**Chapter 22: Chapter 22**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Christmas day. The one time of the year where the morning streets of London are completely deserted. They only fill in the evening, with party-goers, orchestra watchers and those going to midnight Mass.

Poirot didn't even expect the evening streets to be particularly busy. The snow had gotten deeper since the day before, and was deepening by the minute. Fat, lazy snowflakes drifted down past the window, sticking to anything and everything in its path, including the two figures that had just left a car and were busy wading their way towards the steps. Poirot watched their progress through the window with interest.

"Come, Hastings. Holmes and Doctor Watson had arrived." Hastings nodded and rose from the mattress where he was sat listening to the radio. They both scurried down the stairs and met their friends as they stepped out of the lift, brushing snow off of their shoulders.

"Good afternoon Poirot, Captain Hastings." Holmes greeted them as soon as he saw them. They all exchanged their respective greetings with each other. Holmes then unlocked Poirot's flat door.

"Shall we?"

"Holmes, where did you get that key?" Watson asked as they made their way single-file down Poirot's corridor. "The police have all the keys to the flat."

"I got it off of Lestrade."

"He gave it to you?"

"I took it to lock this flat after last time we visited. He didn't ask for it back." Watson didn't believe this was a completely true retelling of the events, but wisely stayed quiet.

This visit to the flat was almost completely identical to the first – Poirot and Holmes crawled around on the floor, whilst Watson and Hastings stood in the hallway, watching quietly. After five minutes of this, Poirot sat back on his knees and sighed.

" _Rien_. Nothing. No other clue of important value." Holmes rose onto his knees and stretched his back.

"No. It seems we have the clues, but we don't have the links." Both detectives rose to their feet and took a more comfortable seat – Poirot to Miss Lemon's desk chair, Holmes on top of the desk.

"How can we have all the clues?" Hastings asked, stepping over the folded rug into the room. "I mean, I can't make head nor tail of it."

"I don't think anyone can." Watson said, leaning against the doorframe. "There are still so many questions unanswered. Why did the murderer run after dropping the girl? What was the substance in the drawer? Where was Mister Lauret that night?"

"I think we can safely guess where Mister Lauret was that night."

"We can?" Holmes looked confusedly at Hastings and Watson, who had both said exactly the same thing at the same time.

"Haven't you rea... Oh!" The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks. "You weren't there when we met with Wiggins."

"Who?"

"One of the street boys Holmes employs to help him." Watson briefly explained to Hastings, before turning his attention back to Holmes. "What did he see?"

"Mister Lauret and his lover – a man named Eric. He mentioned meeting the man in the park earlier, so I do believe the lover and Eric are one and the same."

"What – another man?"

"Yes."

"...That sort of thing happens between men?" Everyone turned and stared at Hastings, who was stood looking absolutely confounded. It was Poirot who broke the silence.

"Hastings, you mean to say you have never thought that love may be possible between two men? Or two women?"

"No, I can't say I have... I suppose it's the same as a man and a woman, the same sort of love and all that, but I can't imagine how they have-"

"Arthur, we don't want to imagine it either." Watson interrupted hurriedly. "But I can see why Mister Lauret lied to us – it is against the law, after all."

" _Oui_... It is one of England's strangest laws."

"Perhaps... But carrying on from our previous discussion, which rules Mister Lauret out of the killings. Miss Lauret couldn't have, since Jemima would've heard her leave."

"So... the murderer must be Jemima!" Hastings spoke from his corner.

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

"Jemima fainted as soon as she saw the scarlet on the knife. I don't believe she works well with blood – or something which looks like blood, anyways. And remembering the amount of scarlet on Lucy's dress, I don't think she could've handled it."

"But she's the only one with no-one to confirm her alibi!"

"And she is the only one with no motive for the killing. It could not have been her. She can't handle blood, and she doesn't have a motive."

"Oh." Hastings looked disappointed. "I guess that puts us back at square one."

"No, we are at the same square we were on when we entered the flat a few minutes ago." The quartet lapsed into completive silence after Holmes' statement, each entangled in their own thoughts.

"Watson." Watson looked up when Holmes called his name.

"Yes?"

"Could you step outside and see if you can spot any more of the boot polish on the stairs above and below us? Perhaps it will shed light on this conundrum."

"Of course." He walked down the corridor, and the trio heard the door click shut after him. They quietly listened to Watsons' footsteps echo on the marble steps – first down them, then back up to the floor above. After five minutes of this, Watson returned.

"Nothing, Holmes. I guess that's to be expected, the cleaners have probably washed them before no- Woah!" Not watching where he put his feet, Watson tripped over the folded edge of the carpet and went careening forward, arms waving madly.

It was only Hastings' quick reflexes which stopped Watson from receiving a nasty wound from the desk edge. He leapt forward and managed to grab Watsons' shoulders to slow his descent. Watson's chest managed to stop mere millimetres from the desk.

"Are you alright, John?" Hastings asked worriedly, pulling him back into a standing position.

"Quite. Thank you, Arthur – I suppose I would've had a rather horrible wound if you had not stopped me!"

"It is what anyone would've done- Poirot?" Hastings stopped his deflection of thanks when he realised Poirot was staring at them, eyes wide and his mouth forming a perfect 'o'.

" _Mon dieu!_ " He exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. Everyone stared at the excited little man a little strangely.

"Monsieur Poirot, what is it?"

"It is all so simple! Why did I not see it before?" Holmes looked between Poirot and Watson, not comprehending until he realised what exactly Poirot was so excited about. When he realised, his eyes went as wide as saucers. He leapt from his position on the desk to his feet and turned fully to face the other detective, excitement building in his face.

"You don't think-" Poirot turned to him, brown eyes sparkling with a kind of frenzy.

" _Oui_! It is the only explanation that fits the facts!" Holmes grinned at him.

"That is excellent! Oh, how did we not see it before? It's obvious!" The two men were almost jumping up and down in excitement. The air was buzzing with their obvious happiness, a happiness that neither Hastings nor Watson could comprehend not share.

"What is it? What's just happened?"

"Hastings, we have solved the case!"

"And how simple the answer is!" Holmes added, brimming with enthusiasm.

"Well, who did it then?" Watson asked this question, running his thumb over his moustache, trying to understand the detectives' way of thinking.

"You shall know soon enough, but it is important we meet with the Lauret's as soon as possible!" With that, Poirot dived out the door, Holmes following close on his heels. Watson and Hastings listened to their steps as they near-flew up the stairs.

Watson and Hastings finally caught up with them in the temporary flat, Holmes lying on the floor, phonebook wide open in front of him, calling out numbers to Poirot, who was sat by the phone, dialling them in as soon as Holmes had shouted them out.

"What-" Poirot shushed him, listening to the telephone receiver intently. After a few moments, it seemed that Mister Lauret had answered the phone.

" _Bonjour_ , Mister Lauret! It is Monsieur Poirot... _Oui,_ I am well... Yes, we do know who it is, that is why I am calling. We must meet with you as soon as possible... Five o' clock, this evening? That should be fine... _Bon._ We shall speak to you soon." He put the phone down.

"We are meeting with the Lauret's at five o clock this evening. Is this arrangement _bien_ with everyone?" Everyone nodded their assent.

" _Bon_. Doctor Watson, Holmes, you do not need to drive back to Baker's Street if you do not want. You are welcome to spend the hours in our flat, if you wish."

"That would be most agreeable, Monsieur Poirot. Thank you for the offer."

"Yes... But, if you don't mind, I must go somewhere at this moment. I hope you will not miss me too much?" Holmes asked this, rising from the floor.

"Not at all. Tell you what, we shall set up the Monopoly board in your absence, so you can play when you return." Holmes nodded before leaving them to it.

The remaining hours were spent playing Monopoly and talking of events and topics which caught their interest. So when the quartet left the flat to drive to the Lauret's, they were in the happiest of spirits.

As all things, the happy spirit did not last, as the unveiling of the killer would naturally dampen any happiness in the group.

* * *

**Chapter 23: Chapter 23**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

Poirot, Holmes, Watson, Hastings, the Lauret's and Jemima were all settled in the bright open sitting room of the Lauret's by half past five. Neither Hastings nor Watson had met Mister Lauret before, so there was much greeting and introducing to be done. Jemima had led them into the same room as before, but it was now decked with Christmas decorations. A fat pine tree squatted in the far corner, its branches coloured with gingerbread ornaments and wooden statuettes.

Mister Lauret had removed the cards from their last visit; instead, the table groaned with small Christmas snacks – chocolates, wine, small pastries and mince pies were only part of the feast prepared for them. The quartet had dived in heartily, and the discussion ranged from the latest car model to Christmas presents. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the inevitable unveiling for as long as possible, but the expected lull in conversation once they had all settled in seats brought it to the forefront of everyone's minds.

"I suppose we'd better get on with why you're here, Monsieur Poirot and Mister Holmes." Lauret finally said, sighing as he did so. "It's a shame it might put a damper on our Christmas spirit, but it's one of those things you have to know, to get any sort of closure."

" _Oui."_ Poirot agreed quietly. "It is better to know on Christmas than not know at all."

"I quite agree." Miss Lauret spoke from her corner, where she was settled with a glass of mulled wine. "But shouldn't we wait for those Inspectors from Scotland Yard? They should be here for the arrest."

"There are some things which will be revealed tonight that that I believe would be best kept out of the police's eagle eyes." Holmes answered Miss Lauret's question without emotion, but he kept half an eye on Mister Lauret. It seemed to him that Mister Lauret had gone a shade or two paler, but it went unnoticed by everyone bar the two detectives.

"Well then, you must tell us! Who did it?" Miss Lauret leant forward, eyes sparkling. All attention was on the two detectives, who took their sweet time before answering. Poirot was the one who started the story.

"When Mister Holmes and myself took on the case, there were five main suspects – Mister Lauret, Miss Lauret, Jemima, Miss Lemon and myself."

"Wait, who's Miss Lemon?" Lauret interrupted, frowning in confusion.

"She was the woman who found the body." Watson clarified. "Do go on, Monsieur Poirot." Poirot nodded his head in thanks before continuing.

"It could not have been either Miss Lemon or myself. I was at the train station at the time. Miss Lemon was outside waiting – the doorman can testify this. It could not have been Miss Lauret – Jemima would have heard the door open as she left. It could not have been Jemima – there was no motive. In fact, it would have made it worse for her if she did – she would've lost a job she loved almost immedietly."

"So that leaves the suspect list at only one person – Mister Lauret." Watson was counting the suspects off of his fingers.

"Yes." Holmes took over the story. "Our attention was first drawn to Mister Lauret when we interviewed him. Mister Lauret," Everyone turned to face him. "You lied as to where you were on the night of your daughter's death."

"I did not!" Lauret protested. "I went stargazing, since it was a clear night-"

"It wasn't," Hastings interrupted. "It was cloudy that night." Lauret stared at him, mouth agape, before sliding a little in his chair and covering his face.

"It's true..." Miss Lauret looked at him, horror plain on her face.

"So you murdered her!"

" _Non,_ " Poirot shook his head. "He lied to where he was, but he could not have killed her."

"And why not?"

"That night, he had gone to visit his lover."

"His _lover_?" Miss Lauret laughed. "He hasn't a lover – he's not looked at another woman since Amelie's death!"

"You misunderstand."

"How can I misunderstand? You just told me he has a lover, but he hasn't seen another woman! What is there to misunderstand?"

"Plently." Lauret was the one who spoke this time. His voice was tired, as if he had bowed to the inevitable retelling of his love life. "God help me, it's true. I did have a lover."

"But..." Miss Lauret looked at him, confused and upset. "...You changed! You never looked at another woman! It'd be obvious if you had another lover – you'd parade her about town!"

"I can't. Not with this one."

"...Explain." Lauret remained silent. Holmes had to prompt him into speaking.

"Your marriage to Amelie – it wasn't one of love, it was one of necessity."

"Yes. Necessary. For her health." Lauret sighed before launching into his story. "I met Amelie through work-"

"Yes, we know that much. I told the detectives the first time they came." Miss Lauret interrupted.

"But you might've misinterpreted. When I say I met Amelie through work, I didn't mean as a colleague. She was my patient."

" _Patient-_ "

"Yes, patient. She suffered from depression. I was the person who treated her. I suspect she was enamoured with me from the start – she always came to visit me when she didn't need to. So when she confessed her feelings, I was put in a bit of a tight spot."

"What do you mean? You could've just said _no_."

"I couldn't have! She suffered from depression – If I said no, it would've ruined all the treatment I was giving her! I had no choice but to lie, and say I felt the same."

"Oh."

"Yes. So I had to change my ways. You've probably told them what I was like with women, haven't you?" Miss Lauret nodded mutely. "Well, I couldn't stay like that. It was hard at the start – I had to break the habit of flirting with women. So I married her, we had a child – I thought my adulterous ways were over. Amelie was the happiest she'd ever been, and although I didn't love Amelie the way she loved me, I felt like a better person. Until..."

"Until you met your present lover."

"Yes. I may sound like a love-struck teenager, but it was love at first sight. I worried at first – it was illegal! That meant there had to be some wrong in what I was feeling-"

"What do you mean 'illegal'? Love isn't illegal!"

"This kind was."

"What do you-"

"Margaret, my lover – he's a man." The room stood still. Miss Lauret seemed to have been shocked into silence – her hands were shaking and she had paled significantly. Lauret carried on with his story as if Miss Lauret hadn't interrupted.

"He told me he felt the same, and I was over the moon. It was an unspoken agreement that it should be kept secret – we didn't want to be caught by the police, after all – so for five years we were together and it was all under wraps. Amelie was happy, I was happy, Lucy was happy – it was five years of bliss. Until... until Amelie found out. Found out about him and me."

"...How?" Miss Lauret's voice was quiet, as if it had only been discovered recently. Everybody in the room unconsciously lent forward to hear his answer.

"I don't know. We were always so careful, meeting in the most secret of places, but somehow she knew. And I was right – when she told me of her feelings, I couldn't have said no. Because when she found out I didn't love her – it drove her over the edge. She drowned herself, and told me in her suicide note that she knew. I was greatly distressed at her death – I had grown to love her like a friend. But I felt oddly free. I didn't have to lie to her anymore."

"Who?" Lauret didn't understand at first, turning to Miss Lauret with a confused expression. "Your lover. Who is it?"

"Oh... It's Eric. Best friend Eric. You met him when he came to deliver a parcel that one time." Miss Lauret nodded quietly. Silence fell as she digested the news slowly. A few minutes later, she looked up and smiled at Lauret. It was shaky, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Perhaps... perhaps Eric could come tomorrow for lunch?" Lauret stared at his sister in shock, before a large grin blossomed on his face. It was acceptance, if only by one person, but to Lauret it meant the world. He leant over and hugged Miss Lauret, his grin threatening to split his face into two.

"I'll ask him when I see him tomorrow." Miss Lauret leaned back and fixed him with an affectionate look, before they both leant back and resumed their usual seats. If it were a moment in a film, it was one of those moments when the whole auditorium would've sighed at the sweetness of the moment. Unfortunately, they were not in a film, and it wasn't soon before Watson, who had been keeping an eye on the number of suspects, noticed the problem.

"But if Mister Lauret didn't murder Lucy, who did? We're out of suspects."

" _Exactement_." Everyone stared at Poirot in confusion, bar Holmes who understood completely.

"What do you mean, Poirot?" Hastings voiced the question that was running through the heads of those who weren't master detectives.

"He means, Captain Hastings," Holmes said slowly. "That no murder ever took place."

* * *

**Chapter 24: Chapter 24**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

There was a very awkward pause. No-one seemed to understand the detectives' way of thinking. Not even Watson, who had lived with Holmes for many years, could see the answer.

"What on earth are you on about?" Lauret asked, having tried and failed to see what the two detectives were getting at.

"Let me explain." Poirot said, leaning back in his seat and knotting his fingers together. "There is no murderer because no murder took place. Her death was purely accidental."

"How is that possible? How can there be no murderer when she was found out of bed and dead in someone else's flat?"

"The first thing that alerted me that there was more than meets the eye was her body. Doctor Watson," He turned to face Watson, who was still completely confounded. "Do you remember what was odd about it?"

"There...there were burns all over her chest!"

" _Oui._ Do you think these burns could bleed?"

"No. They're too small."

" _Exactement_. Why is there so much blood on her dress when the burns are too small to bleed?" Everyone paused to consider this. Holmes used this pause to carry on the story.

"Answer; it wasn't blood, but it smelt exactly like it. We found the answer later on, when we inspected your flat. The knife, covered in scarlet. It wasn't blood. It smelt like it, with its metallic tang, but tasted of spices."

"...So, what was it?"

"What had spilt in the kitchen earlier in the evening?" Everyone was quiet in though, until Jemima let out a cry of understanding.

"The soup pot!"

"What do you mean, you silly girl?" Miss Lauret asked, her voice laced with contempt.

"Earlier in the evening, you made tomato soup in your pot, and I spilt the leftovers afterwards! The pot's all corroded on the inside, so the soup would smell of metal because it was cooked in the pot!"

"Excellent, Miss Jemima." Jemima blushed from the praise. "But one mistake. I don't think it was you who knocked the pot over."

"Then who? I was the only one in the room at the time."

"Mister Lauret," Holmes turned towards the man. "You mentioned that Lucy was 'more excitable than usual' that night."

"She was."

"And, if my information is correct, she is also the only one in the household that owns white shoes."

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything. Usually you don't find shoe polish on drawers. Feet generally don't go on drawers, unless someone's been climbing on them."

"Climbing- Mister Holmes, you don't mean to say it was _Lucy_ who knocked the pot?"

"That is exactly what he's saying." Poirot retook the storytelling reins. "You say she was excitable. She could not get to sleep, so she creeps to the kitchen in search of a snack of the night-"

" _Midnight snack,_ Poirot." Hastings corrected.

" _Oui,_ that. Miss Jemima told us that Lucy adored the soup, so it is natural to assume Lucy climbed the drawer to get at the pot. Unfortunately, she slipped – spilling the soup on herself and knocking the pot to the floor."

"But how did Jemima not see her? She must've seen her – she turned around when she heard the crash."

"What do children do when they do not want to be caught in the act? They hide. Lucy hid from Jemima, to avoid a scolding. Hastings, Doctor Watson – do you remember when we lost Mister Holmes for a while when Jemima fainted?"

"Yes- Oh!" Hastings saw what Poirot was getting at. "Mister Holmes was hidden behind the tea-towels. The edges of the tea-towels were red, so she must've hidden there!"

"Of course!" Watson interjected. "Jemima wouldn't use tea-towels to tidy up the spilt soup – that would be mad – so the red had to come from somewhere else!"

"Exactly! The red had come from Lucy herself when she hid there. Jemima, worried about the reaction of Miss Lauret, did not notice Lucy hidden behind the _torchons_ and left the room. Lucy then made her escape – through the open front door."

"Then what?" The room leant forward as one, each hanging on to the detectives' every last word. No one seemed to be breathing, all anticipating the end of the strangest tale they had ever heard.

"Instinct would've told her to run," Holmes restarted the story. "And that she did. Down the stairs. But there was one thing she didn't anticipate – the return of her father."

"Me? My return?"

"Yes. You had gone out for your walk, but Jemima told us that you returned ten minutes later to pick something up from the coat rack."

"Oh!"

"Quite. Lucy recognised the distinctive sound to your shoes almost immediately and panicked. She decided to hide in the closest place to her – that is, in Monsieur Poirot's flat, diving through the door that Miss Lemon had left open. In her haste to find somewhere to hide, she kicked open the bottom locks on the door and ran inside. But she didn't expect the doors to fold over the edge of the rug. She tripped on the edge-"

"-And hit her head on the desk edge." Poirot took over to end the story. "The head injury she received from the desk was fatal if left untreated. Miss Lemon did not find her until she had died from her injury."

"But when we inspected the flat," Hastings interrupted with confusion. "You told us that the body had been placed there!"

"We were... mistaken." Holmes answered with slight difficulty, as if it was difficult for him to admit that he was wrong. "Inspectors Japp and Lestrade were correct. The corridor in Monsieur Poirot's flat is far too narrow for someone to be carrying a corpse down it."

The quartet regrouped again in Poirot's flat. In thanks, along with payment, the Lauret's insisted on sending them off with several hampers worth of food and drink. Deciding to take them to the Poirot's flat before splitting it, they'd all trooped back to his flat in Hastings' over-laden car which threatened to stop on every corner.

It had taken them several trips in and out of Whitehaven Mansions to transfer all the food from the car to the flat, so by the end of it they were all knackered. The last parcel of food had been taken up five minutes ago, but all four of them were sitting in various states across the floor of the temporary flat.

It would've been more comfortable in Poirot's own flat, but no-one had bothered to tell the police inspectors that the case had been solved yet – they had only just returned from carting several tonnes of food up to the flat, after all. They were all recovering from the tiring excursion, therefore Scotland Yard could wait.

Unfortunately, this was not the way Scotland Yard liked to think. They liked to think that they should be put before everything else. So it was only to be expected that Inspector Japp would call them during their time of recuperation.

The obnoxious sound of Poirot's phone rang through the tired flat like a gunshot. Poirot was nearest to the phone, but all he did was stare at it, hoping that it would stop and he wouldn't have to face whoever was on the other end. And it did stop... for all of five seconds. Then the blaring ring of the contraption ran amok in the flat, and Poirot gave up ignoring it.

" _Allô?"_

"Poirot! It's Japp!"

"Yes, I know. Good evening."

"We've had the tests back from forensics, on the blood on the knife!"

"And?"

"It isn't blood at all! It's tomato soup!"

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?" Japp's voice had gone from exuberant to annoyed in the space of two seconds.

"Holmes and I have solved the case."

"What? And you didn't think to tell us?"

"We have only returned from telling the Lauret's."

"And? Who did it?"

"It was an accident."

"An accident? You're pulling my leg."

"No Inspector, there is no pulling of the legs happening here. I shall explain tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Poirot-"

"Tomorrow, Chief Inspector."

"But-"

"Goodnight." Poirot put the phone down.

"That was a bit harsh, Poirot." Hastings commented, lazily rolling his head to face the Belgian.

"Perhaps. But I have no patience for the _imbeciles_ of Scotland Yard today."

"True."

"Neither do I." Watson agreed.

"But knowing them, they're on their way to the flat at this very moment in time." Holmes pointed out from his position of half-lying on Poirot's mattress. The quartet sighed in disappointment.

"Pity. Anyone have any ideas as to how we will avoid them for tonight?" Hastings asked.

"I do." They all turned to look at Holmes.

"You do?"

"Yes. Watson, do you remember what I asked you to go to before we fought? It was the reason why I was late, if that helps any." Watson frowned in thought.

"No.. Wait! Yes! The orchestra Christmas show- Hang on," Watson turned to look at him suspiciously. "You've planned this."

"You think so?" Holmes tried and failed to look innocent.

"Yes... I wager that you went to see that friend of yours earlier – to get tickets." Holmes grinned.

"Perhaps... But even if I had planned it or not, I still have four tickets to go and see it tonight."

"You mean..."

"Monsieur Poirot, Doctor Watson and Captain Hastings – tonight, I will be listening to the feast of music that is the orchestra's Christmas Show. Would you care to join me?"

* * *

**Chapter 25: Chapter 25**

* * *

**A Study at Styles**

After the excitement of that Christmas day, everything returned to as near normal as it could possibly be. All was well. Life went on. Inspector Japp gained ten pounds from Inspector Lestrade, seeing as he won the bet. The two inspectors continued to speak to one another, even though they worked in different sections of the police.

Hastings and Watson also remained in contact, sometimes taking time out from their busy lives to visit one another. They often saw each other on a case, where Poirot and Holmes had joined forces. Sometimes they would see each other when they were on different cases, when Holmes and Poirot would cross paths.

Holmes and Poirot were in regular contact with one another. Often enough one would phone the other, looking for an answer to a question that pertained to the case they were on. Often one would phone up and ask the other to join them on a case. From time to time, one would phone the other to invite them to a restaurant, or to the theatre.

All in all, the case had created more than two satisfied detectives. It had started a duo, a duo that the criminal underworld would learn to fear above all else, and combined with Watson and Hastings, it made an unforgettable quartet.


End file.
